


Life's a Catch

by Luthor



Series: Life's a Catch [1]
Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, College AU, Disassociation, F/F, No Reapers AU, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Slow Burn, Sole Survivor, colonist, disassociative behaviour, paragon - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2016-02-05
Packaged: 2018-04-16 22:22:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 115,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4642257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luthor/pseuds/Luthor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>ME Kink Meme Prompt: "College AU set in a galaxy without the Reapers. Shepard has left the military for whatever reason (honourable discharge, maybe?) and she wants to go back to school. Liara is Shepard's Professor."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started filling this for a prompt on the Mass Effect Kink Meme and then realised that I was turning it into A Thing. A goddamn monster of a thing. This first part is pretty tame; I plan to deal with the actual ~kink in the next chapter. This is my first time filling a kink meme prompt, though, so I hope I've done it justice!
> 
> Warning: Profanities abound!
> 
> Credit to Bioware for the title. It's almost straight out of Flemmeth's mouth.
> 
> (Also, this is student/teacher.)

Shepard wakes that morning with a headache.

Had she been drinking the night before? Unlikely. Not that she remembers. What does she remember? No, it’s Monday morning. She wouldn’t. She rolls over, shoves her face in her pillow and drags the duvet up to her ears. What is that _noise_? Oh, the new flatmate. Though ‘flatmate’ barely covers it when the woman refuses to leave her room (at least, not when Shepard is there). Sure makes a lot of noise, though… What kind of music was that, anyway?

Shit, she really might be too old for this whole college thing.

A beat.

Oh… shit. _Shit_.

Shepard’s brain reacts quicker than her body can keep up with, shoots her out of bed like her legs are made of springs, and then deserts her altogether when she trips on the duvet and falls face first onto her bedroom floor. _Shit_. She grabs her omnitool on the way to her wardrobe, pulls out the first articles of clothing she can off the pile that’s become of her clean clothes, and checks the time.

“Oh, _shit._ Fuck! Fuck me! Fuck my fuck!”

She throws the omnitool on the bed. No time for a shower. Her hair doesn’t look too bad when she passes the mirror, but she passes it quickly, and then detours back to her wardrobe. A hat! Perfect. She checks her omnitool again. No breakfast. No – she should eat something. Brain food and all. What was Mordin always muttering on about? Fish? Eh, she’d grab an apple.

She has time enough to slip into clean underwear, a tank top, the black cargo pants that have paint at the bottom that she hasn’t yet realised didn’t come out in the laundry. She stumbles into her socks and shoes as she’s leaving her bedroom, almost falls into the bathroom, and shoves a toothbrush in her mouth. She hopes it’s hers. She checks the cup, finds the little red one left behind, and sighs her first breath of relief of the morning.

Maybe there’s still hope, she thinks, but she thinks it too quickly. In the bathroom, in the full light of day, she can’t escape the mirror. She’s not getting enough sleep and it is showing. She runs a hand over her face, picks at the sleep in the corners of her eyes, and musses her fingers through her bed head. Where did she put that hat..? She lifts her wrist up to check her omnitool again. She back tracks. She grabs that apple, as well – shoves it in a pocket. For the journey.

Where the _fuck_ did she put that hat?

 

It takes her less than ten minutes to leave her flat, all in all, and if she runs to the bus stop, she might just make it in time. It’s not yet raining, but the sky is a pitiless grey that she’s come to associate with autumn. It’s barely mid-summer, but that’s colony life for you. The second you get too used to predicting the weather on your nice homey planet, a pack of slavers turn up and decimates the good thing you have going there. Shepard’s used to moving. Shepard’s even grown fond of moving – home, and her body, which is better than average at it, even with the new prosthetic.

(A benefit of making friends in high places: she gets dibs on the latest upgrades. Of course, her successful N7 training helps, too.)

Still, the prosthetic _is_ new, and they’ve never fit as well as the packaging claims they will, and there’s a reason she’s no longer with the marines. She slows as she rounds a corner and hears something click – after that, she thinks better about picking up the pace. By the time the next corner is coming up, she’s trying not to wince (and how is it fair that a limb she no longer has gets to give her so much shit?). She slows down again as she rounds it, sucks in a sharp breath, and ignores the stares she’s getting as she bundles past, her backpack jingling with datapads and notebooks and pens (no one can ever fault Shepard for being unprepared).

And then it happens, just as the bus stop comes in sight --  the bus has beaten her to it, and when will the next shuttle arrive, and why has she not yet bought her own car? She picks up running again, a full on sprint that leaves her breathless and waving and spitting profanities as the bus slips away. She checks her omnitool and swears again. She’s going to be late on her first day of college. This is a sign, isn’t it?

Backtracking, she steps up to the screen set in the glass of the bus shelter and checks the times. The next shuttle should be arriving in ten minutes, but it’s ten minutes that Shepard doesn’t have. She steps back out of the shelter and drops into a crouch, head in her hands, almost just pulls her black beanie over her eyes and calls it a day. But, no. She wanted to do this. She tries to remember the reasons why, but they linger on the edges of her mind, just out of reach. Well, fuck them, too.

A passing turian grabs their child’s hand and tugs them along, tells them to stop staring at the human having a crisis in the middle of the street. The child cranes his neck back to see her, looking concerned. Shepard almost cries. _Me too, kid, me too_.

Minutes pass. Finally, Shepard stands with a groan and shuffles her backpack against her shoulders. She feels for the apple in her pocket and pulls it out, rubs it on her tank top before taking a bite, and then looks down to see what she’s really wearing. Where the shit is her jacket?

 

The shuttle arrives on time. Shepard never doubted that it would, but with the luck she’s having, would it honestly surprise her…?

She steps on and grabs a seat near the back. Apparently, there aren’t many commuters at this time. They all made the earlier buses – probably arrived on time, or early. Sighing, she shoves her backpack down between her feet and rummages inside for a hoodie. She comes out with a wrinkled check shirt, instead. Well, some stereotypes just followed her around, didn’t they…?

( _On your first day back at college, Shepard. Shit._ )

She almost smacks herself on the head, but settles instead for checking her omnitool. At least she hadn’t forgotten that, though why the alarm hadn’t gone off… She brings up the brief note she’d made of her schedule, finds her morning class, and lets out a slight sigh. It’s not exactly relieved, but hey, the history module she’d tagged onto her study guide last minute was only to get a taste for the subject. She’d probably drop it before the end of the week, and to no great displeasure of her Professor, she was sure.

(“ _Displeased: this is the third time you’ve arrived late in as many days, human_ …

_"Mock regret: are you sure you wish to drop my class?_

_"Repressed relief: I am sorry things did not work out."_ )

 

The bus slows at nearly every stop, because why wouldn’t it when Shepard is already late on her _first day_? By the time it reaches the university, Shepard is standing by the doors and hops off before they’ve even finished opening. She shoulders her backpack, tosses her apple core into the closest trash can, and wipes her sticky fingers in her shirt. Great start. Where’s she going?

She pulls the omnitool up again, this time with the map of the building, and tracks each holographic level until she can zoom right in to a specific corridor and staircase. She has a vague idea of where she is supposed to go. She hurries there, even as she’s wondering if there’s any point. Is she really going to be _that person_ , showing up twenty minutes late on the first day – to her first class, no less?

Her stomach knots with frustration more than anxiety (Shepard knows anxiety; oh, Shepard knows stress and nerves and gut-wrenching terror, and this is not it), but she did not face down thresher maws and sentient plants and _fucking Cerberus_ only to run crying like a little kid at her first day at big school.

Why was she even doing this, again…?

For better or worse, she reaches her room, only to find that it isn’t the lecture theatre she was hoping for, but an almost intimately small seminar room. A quick scan through the window tells her she’ll not be finding an easy seat. Maybe she won’t find one altogether. _Maybe_ she’ll just squat in an aisle and play solitaire on her datapad until she feels comfortable enough to walk the fuck back out again.

She takes a deep breath. She palms the door open.

The metal slides apart with a familiar hiss and all eyes turn to Shepard. Has she honest to God inflicted this on herself? Was N7 training not enough? Trying not to stiffen, she steps into the room. A lilting voice is still speaking and Shepard glances to the front of the room, where an asari is fiddling with the datapad controlling the holographic picture on the front wall. Her back is turned to the door, body angled so that she’s not completely shutting out the rest of the room, but her eyes are planted firmly on her datapad.

The asari’s frown deepens at the sound of the door wheezing closed again. She turns quickly, and sharp blue eyes trap Shepard in place. She feels her entire body straighten, like a pole has just been shoved up her—

“Ah, sorry,” she fumbles, tears her gaze away.

An empty seat!

She slips into it without fault, and of course it’s directly in front of the Professor’s desk. She ignores that – and the Professor, and every other student in the room, and even her ridiculously quick heartbeat – as she yanks her bag open to pull out a notepad. She does not look behind her to check whether or not the other students are writing or typing. She focuses her eyes straight ahead and tries to catch up on twenty minutes of lost lesson time before her Professor can ramble on and change the slide.

All that running has left her hot and a little sweaty, and of course she didn’t have time to put on any deodorant before leaving her flat. She contemplates rooting around in her backpack for some, but the idea of disturbing the lesson again—nah, she’ll wait. She’ll stink and she’ll wait. Still, she slips the shirt off her shoulders and sets her elbows on the desk, flexing her arms.

At the front of the room, something small and plastic hits the floor.

Shepard looks up in time to see her Professor fumbling quickly for the datapad she’d dropped. She runs a palm over it, checking for scratches, and sighs when it reacts to her touch – unbroken. Those sharp blue eyes skim the room, then, and Shepard is probably imagining things when they linger a little too long on her – when, quite strangely, the freckles on her cheeks suddenly get lost in a deeper, darker blue.

Definitely imagining it.

Except, she isn’t.

She waits another ten minutes before rubbing one knuckle against her eye as though she has an itch, and then flexes.

“…who were known for their—” her Professor's neck straightens quickly, snaps her gaze around to the back of the room; it takes her a full three seconds to remember what she’s saying. She clears her throat. She does not look at Shepard again. “Known for their impressive control of biotics.”

For the first time this morning, Shepard relaxes. Her shoulders slink back in the support of her seat, and she wriggles right beneath her Professor’s nose. Her Professor goes on rambling about something that Shepard should be taking notes about, and it should bore her, probably, except some people are born with voices that are _made_ to be heard, and Shepard is hanging off every word.

All of a sudden, History becomes very interesting.

 

Dr. T’Soni, is her name.

Shepard discovers it when there’s a brief lax in her monologue, fumbling on her datapad for more information about her silver tongued Professor. She probably shouldn’t be searching the extranet in the middle of a lesson, and if anyone was peering close enough over her shoulder to catch her creeping, she’d be mortified. Still. She skims through a quick biography, credentials, published work, and finally stops at a picture.

The caption below it reveals _Liara_ T’Soni, esteemed historian, but by this point the woman herself has begun speaking again and Shepard quickly closes the tab.

 

As first lessons go, it isn’t the worst.

Dr. T’Soni has some interesting curves—ah, _ideas_. Information. Shit, her Professor could be reading a hanar dictionary aloud with her translator muted and Shepard would _still_ listen with rapt attention. Whether or not she’d retain anything useful, however…

 

As the lesson comes to a close, Dr. T’Soni dismisses her students.

It’s a verbal thing, but then she turns her back on them, too, lifting her head only to bid farewell as they make their way through the door. She packs up her datapads to the sound of scraping chairs, clearing the mess she’s made of the desk. Finally, she grabs the datapad that is projecting the holographic screen on the wall and takes a few steps back, as though aiming it, to switch the projector off.

On her way, she manages to bump elbows with something soft and warm, and quickly jumps back.

“I’m—oh,” it's the _redhead_ ; Dr. T'Soni's insides boil and tense, she holds the datapad to her chest as though concealing herself behind it, “I’m sorry.”

“That’s alright,” Shepard grins. “Actually, I wanted to say the same. About earlier. Coming in so late.”

“ _Oh_.” As though she hadn’t noticed. “I see.”

“Yeah, not my best start, I know.” Shepard grabs her backpack by the straps, her arms bent and bulging a little more than is really necessary. She practically hears her Professor swallow. “Hey, about that, I think I might have missed a few notes at the beginning.” _And the rest_. “Is there any way I can get a copy…?”

“Of my notes?” Dr. T’Soni blinks quickly and then draws a sharp breath in. Goddess, why is she acting so dense? “Of course. Here, let me…”

Shepard watches as she moves back to the desk, to the bag that sits on top of it. Dr. T’Soni rummages through it for the right datapad (how many does she keep in there?), and then finally produces the one with her lesson notes on. Her cheeks are navy blue when she returns.

“Ah, shall I…?”

“Yeah,” Shepard is quick to grab her own datapad, “you want my number—uh, address.” It’s her turn to blush. “I meant, _email address._ ”

Dr. T’Soni nods her head; Shepard discovers that she isn’t very good at hiding her smiles. Shepard passes along her datapad. The door hisses closed behind the stragglers from class, making Shepard the last to leave. She shifts from foot to foot and tries not to pay too much attention to the long, blue fingers that are holding her datapad.

They look pretty strong, too, in that piano-player delicate kind of way.

Shepard shivers at the thought. Or maybe just because she’s stepped beneath a vent of cool air. It blows a brief breeze against her tank top, just cold enough to remind Shepard that she hasn’t bothered slipping her shirt back on over her tank, and she’s paying for it now. She crosses her arms against her chest to conceal the effects of the cold air, but is forced to release the hold to take back her datapad. Hopefully, her Professor won’t notice the display.

Obviously, that’s too much for Shepard to hope for on a day like this.

(Dr. T’Soni’s cheeks turn _twilight blue_ , and Shepard almost laughs out loud.)

“Thanks,” she gives the datapad a little wave, then tucks it into her pocket, “I appreciate this.”

“It’s no trouble,” her professor promises, and Shepard’s smile widens.

_Hey, so maybe you and I should…_

_So, are you free now, maybe we could grab a coffee together or…_

_Your eyes are so intense, I can feel them in very intimate places, like my…_

Dr. T’Soni clears her throat. Shepard realises she’s been staring.

“Right,” she says a little too loudly, takes two steps back, tries not to creep her poor, hot Professor out too much. “Right, thanks. I should go.”

Dr. T’Soni nods her head, but then— “I… didn’t catch your name?”

And does she look hopeful, or is Shepard projecting?

“Shep—uh, Jane. Jane Shepard.” She nearly salutes.

“Jane Shepard,” Dr. T’Soni repeats. She is smiling. “Well, goodbye.”

 

Shepard wanders out of the room in a daze.

Minutes later, she comes to. She is sitting on a bench that she hopes is still on campus. There are people around her, and not all of them look fresh out of high school. When she looks up and squints at the sky, even a slither of sunlight is managing to make it through the clouds. All in all, her day seems to be improving.

She eases back against the bench and feels the tension slowly slip out of her shoulders. First day of college? No problem.

Thirty seconds later, she remembers her next class. Her eyes slip down to her omnitool.

_No, not again, I can’t be — aw, shit!_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. This is turning into A Bigger Thing. I'll try to get updates up as soon as possible and, I promise, this is a kink meme prompt fill! There will be kink. Eventually.

Shepard is not only on time for her next History class, she’s early.

She’s one of the few students milling around outside of the seminar room fifteen minutes before the class is set to begin, sipping coffee, beating her fingers against the side of the cup to the erratic beat of whatever noise her flatmate was blaring this morning. (What time does she wake up? Does she actually sleep…?) She’s leaning against the wall, trying to keep her mind occupied, when the sole occupant of her thoughts steps into the corridor.

Shepard swears she knows it’s her from the sound of her heels alone – demure little kittens that even Shepard herself could manage to walk in a straight line in, but at the end of those two, delicate blue ankles, Shepard can appreciate them none the less. Dr. T’Soni is wearing the familiar white and gold of her home world, wrapped into a skirt that ends below the knee and a blazer that can only be tailored to her exact fit.

It’s modesty at its finest, and yet…

Shepard’s willing to wager the woman could fill out a bin bag with the same effect.

Their eyes meet as Dr. T’Soni passes, and Shepard wants to say it’s electricity at first sight, except she isn’t sure what that even means. Still, she almost drops her cup of coffee down her shirt, and is saved from scalding her nipples off only when Dr. T’Soni breaks her gaze. With her back to her, Shepard appreciates the view – most notably, the zipper that runs from the top to the bottom of the skirt, right down the centre of her ass.

Shepard wants to peel it down with her teeth.

 

She steps into the room after her Professor and slips down into the same seat as last time, taking her place at the front of the room. (It’s not so bad, all things considered. She doesn’t have the distraction of the students behind her, and the view is… well. She’s not complaining.)

Dr. T’Soni slips her bag down onto her desk and begins pulling out datapads and stacks of paper. There’s a lull in the room, not enough students yet present to create noise to the point of distraction, but background chatter. Shepard is content to hold her coffee beneath her chin and zone out while staring at the front wall. Seconds later, a holographic image of a pyramid flashes up and breaks her concentration. She blinks and catches Dr. T’Soni slipping into her seat.

Their desks are pressed almost uncomfortably close. Shepard thinks someone must have shuffled them around since her last seminar in this room, trying to create more space near the back. She doesn’t remember being close enough to count each individual freckle on her Professor’s nose last time.

As though sharing the thought, Dr. T’Soni’s cheeks flush.

Still, she manages a smile, something demure like her appearance but – amused. Embarrassed. She’d been caught staring, too.

Shepard presses her coffee to her mouth to hide her grin.

 

After that chancy beginning, the seminar continues as before. Dr. T’Soni picks her way through slide after slide, and Shepard manages to jot down enough notes to make the lesson coherent. Not that it isn’t, but that voice… She wonders if her Professor has ever considered recording audio books or VIs. She’d make a living.

It’s only her second week of college, and the work is beginning to pile up already, but Shepard is beginning to settle in. She’s not the only mature student present (her greatest fear? Shit, what a luxury), and she’s even bought herself a back-up alarm clock, just in case. She’d been able to shower this morning, even applied a little make-up to hide the rotten night of sleep she’d had, and eaten a full breakfast. She feels human again, and the way her heartbeat picks up every time her Professor catches her eye reminds her that she’s still alive.

Perhaps it’s for these reasons that she lingers behind after class.

The memo went out yesterday evening switching up her schedule, and the sudden change gives her a two hour break directly after her History class. She’s in no rush to pack away her things. There’s nothing wrong with coming to her Professor with questions, is there? She remembers high school well enough – this shit is encouraged. Still, she waits until the room is verging on empty before making her move.

( _Are her palms sweating? Shit, Shepard, pull yourself together_.)

“Uh, Dr. T’Soni?”

The woman in question makes a small noise – ‘ _mm?_ ’ – before turning around. She smiles when she sees Shepard.

Shepard takes that as a good sign.

“Can I help you with something?” Dr. T’Soni asks, and Shepard shuffles to lean one hip against her desk. Her Professor tracks the movement as though she can’t help herself. “I… you’re keeping up with the syllabus so far?”

“Oh, yeah, that’s no problem.”

“I see.” She blinks when Shepard forgets to go on. “That’s good?”

“Yeah – sorry, yeah.”

“And… everything else is okay?” The markings above Dr. T’Soni’s eyes draw in tight and concerned. She takes a step forward. The last of the students, bar Shepard, exit the room; the door hisses closed behind them. “You’re… settling in?”

“Sure…”

“And you’re not… I mean, you’re…”

“Professor?”

“I may have…” Dr. T’Soni’s cheeks flush navy blue; she looks away quickly, makes a small, hesitant noise, and then confesses, “I’m aware of your background, Jane. We do have support available.”

Shepard blinks. “Support?”

“For our ex-military students.”

“Oh.” Something cold and slippery runs down Shepard’s spine; she quickly straightens. “ _Oh_.”

Dr. T’Soni is staring at her like a deer in headlights; truly, she’s never seen anyone’s eyes go quite so wide. All of a sudden, the years fall off her. Her nose crinkles in distaste, a hand comes up to touch her forehead. She shuffles on the spot as though it’s her mother staring her down, not her faintly-smiling student.

“Goddess—I shouldn’t have pried, forgive me—”

“No, it’s—”

“It’s just, I was so sure you were—well, when I read that—it can’t be easy being—”

“Dr. T’Soni.”

Liara presses a hand to her eyes. She takes a deep breath and then slowly removes it. “Yes?”

Her voice sounds small and meek and Shepard almost feels guilty for smiling as widely as she is. She wets her lips, scratches her blunt thumb nails against the empty take-out coffee cup in her hands, and crosses her ankles. Her Professor waits for her response, her cheeks growing bluer for every second that Shepard delays (she wonders, vaguely, how far that blush goes down).

“That’s not actually what I wanted to ask you,” she says slowly, and Dr. T’Soni looks away. “But, thank you.”

“Of course.” A pause. She forces herself to meet Shepard’s gaze, and almost wishes she hadn’t. The human is grinning across at her in that way that they have; it makes her feel both self-conscious and warm (very, very warm, maybe she should take off this blazer). “Is there… something else?” Her voice almost gives out on her.

“You looked into my background?”

Goddess, this is how she dies. This is how. Her gravestone will read: Liara T’Soni, great at digging holes for both long lost artefacts and herself. Her mother will be so disappointed to have out-lived her. Her wake will be An Event. Benezia will serve that tea that Liara has never had a taste for…

“I…” She takes a deep breath. She is not a good liar. “I like to know who I’m teaching. Your information did come across my desk.”

“ _Uh-huh_.”

“Jane…?”

“Let’s get coffee,” Shepard blurts. “I mean, do you want to get coffee? I do have a few questions, actually.”

Dr. T’Soni stares at her for three whole seconds. She wets her lips. “Regarding the course?”

“Mm, in a manner of speaking,” Shepard lies, “yes.”

Dr. T’Soni looks around her as though looking for an excuse. Her hands tremble a little when she reaches for her datapads. When she turns back to Shepard, however, there’s a steely kind of resolve in her blue eyes. She nods her head, slips her datapads back into her bag, and pulls the straps up onto one shoulder.

“Okay.”

 

They stay on campus. It’s probably more appropriate that way, Shepard thinks.

Dr. T’Soni leads the way to a small coffee shop away from the hubbub of the popular campus eateries. It’s empty enough to cool down her blush by the time they pick out a table facing a lake. Shepard watches a family of pink, web-footed creatures slip into the water, then turns to see her Professor watching her.

“You had questions,” Dr. T’Soni prompts. She stirs her tea.

“Yeah.” Shepard’s leg starts bouncing beneath the table. She wonders if maybe more coffee isn’t such a great idea. “You have specific aid for ex-military students?”

“Ah, well…” Dr. T’Soni puts her spoon down; that blush threatens to flare up again, but she controls it. “We don’t get enough ex-military students to offer specific aid, but our councillors are well prepared…” Shepard chokes off a laugh. “Oh, you were teasing me.”

“Sorry,” she grins. “No, not really. I was curious.”

“Of course you were,” her voice drops when she’s amused; Shepard feels her stomach flutter. “Now, there _is_ something you wished to ask me, isn’t there?”

“Absolutely.” She wouldn’t just drag her poor, hot Professor all the way out here to steal glances at her tits, would she? (No, no honestly, she probably wouldn’t. Good fucking lord, if her parents could see her now.) She takes a sip of her coffee; it is too warm and she burns her tongue. She traps it between her teeth and winces. “So… how did you get into teaching?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Teaching,” Shepard repeats, and the good doctor has blushed enough for one day, hasn’t she? Perhaps it’s time to level the playing field. “I mean, that’s quite a jump from archaeology, isn’t it?”

(Because she genuinely isn’t even sure.)

Dr. T’Soni stares across at her, unblinking. All of a sudden, she realises what kind of _coffee date_ this is, and her spine goes numb. She should end this immediately. Goddess, she shouldn’t even have contemplated accepting the offer. All those years spent hip-deep in dust and bones, only to throw away her bludgeoning career on—on _ex-military_.

(On arms that could probably carry her into the next life, and beyond. Oh, sweet Athame, _take her_. She’s ready.)

Dr. T’Soni opens her mouth. She’ll tell Shepard what is appropriate and what is not. She will finish her tea, because it is her favourite blend, and then she will leave. It will not be awkward between them. She is a professional. Instead—

“You looked into my background.”

It is not a question. It is vaguely teasing, and outright alarmed. To think, all the blood that had been forced into her poor, swollen cheeks, and Jane Shepard was no better than her. She narrows her eyes (Shepard laughs again, and she likes that sound; she hates that she likes that sound).

“Guilty.” She has to admire how easily the human shrugs it off, how nonchalant she is, even amused. “Guess that makes us even.”

Dr. T’Soni slowly nods her head. She knows when to accept that she has been bested. “I guess it does.”

“Well?”

“Hm?”

“You never actually answered my question,” Shepard points out. “Archaeology?”

“You’re… you actually wish to know?”

“Sure.”

“Well.” Dr. T’Soni fiddles with her tea; it is too hot to drink yet, but she needs something to do. She momentarily considers the sachets of sugar placed in a pot on the table, but quickly disregards the thought. “Archaeology was… I suppose you would call it my life’s great love affair.”

Her tones hints at sardonic, but Shepard only smiles.

“That’s very romantic.”

Goddess, has she not blushed enough for one century…?

“I did not mean for it to be,” she stutters, breaks eye contact. Fiddles with her mug. “Just that I was very passionate about it.”

“Was?”

“Mm.” She lifts her head, then, meets Shepard’s gaze and smiles a little. “I still enjoy it.” She is still subscribed to at least twelve archaeology magazines that she has grown an emotional attachment to, and is often paid to have her own articles published within them. They are her babies. She will never admit to that out loud (without ample alcoholic aid). “But... I decided that I needed a new challenge.”

It’s more complicated than that, is what Shepard picks up from her tone, but she does not pry. She nods her head as though she understands; in a way, she does. She didn’t work her way up the military ranks for the heck of it. “So why teaching?” she asks.

“Why not teaching?” Well, she has her there. Shepard shrugs and Dr. T’Soni’s smile broadens, ever so slightly. Still, she clarifies: “It meant I could still work within the field of study I most enjoy, and encourage new students to become as enthusiastic as I am about long dead civilisations.”

She makes a joke of it, though Shepard supposes she has to; she can’t imagine meeting another person as into what they do as her Professor seems to be.

“ _And_ have those students pick your brain about weirdly personal shit over coffee, right?” Shepard smirks at herself. Oh, good god, she is reaching here. She is reaching so far. Has another woman ever been so out of her league? She thinks, probably (but, and let’s be real, _probably not_ ).

Dr. T’Soni only smiles. “And that.” Her gaze falls back to her teacup; she lifts it to her mouth and takes her first, delicate sip.

Shepard is suddenly parched.

Just how did she manage this? Has karma finally decided to repay her for all those scars? Is this the ‘ _I’m sorry_ ’ she gets for losing her best kicking leg beneath the knee? (She’s willing to take it, oh fuck, is she willing to take it.) She blinks across at her Professor, and she really should remember that title, and feels her cheeks redden slightly when Dr. T’Soni catches her staring.

Then she smiles and Dr. T’Soni smiles back, and Shepard wonders if she’s making some terrible mistake.

 

Shepard makes her cup of coffee last an hour.

Really, it’s a talent, but not the reason she sits for so long with Dr. T’Soni in the little campus coffee shop. Once her Professor gets talking about her passions, Shepard quickly discovers, it is very difficult to get her to… well, stop. Not that she’d try. It’s really fucking cute, actually.

“But what were they like?” she asks, fiddling with a sachet of unopened brown sugar. She taps it against her knuckles three times. “What did they eat?”

“Jane, you’re assuming I know that much,” Dr. T’Soni sighs. “The protheans disappeared over 50,000 years ago. All that’s left of them are ruins, and while they’re fascinating enough,” and _oh, boy_ , were they, “to find fragments of their art or literature… It would be quite the discovery.”

“But they were an advanced species, right? So there would have been art and literature.”

“Oh, of course. The ruins I have uncovered have held pieces of technology that rival even our own equipment.”

“So, where did it all go?”

Dr. T’Soni tips her head to one side and smiles. She takes one look at Jane and thinks, _you are going to love my syllabus_. Then, slowly, she shrugs her shoulders. Shepard almost falls out of her seat.

“That’s… spooky,” she finishes, and the two grin like teenagers telling ghost stories at a slumber party.

“It is, indeed.” Her story finished, Dr. T’Soni sits back in her seat and starts to reach for her teacup, only to realise that she has long since finished her tea. Her eyes spark towards her omnitool in surprise; how had she lost track of the time? “Goddess, I’ve been talking you to death for over an hour.”

Shepard grins and shrugs. “Still very much alive, thank you.” Dr. T’Soni huffs in response. “Do you have somewhere to be?”

“I…” Yes, she thinks. Literally anywhere but here. It would be so easy for her to make up an excuse – even she, with her perverse inability to tell a convincing lie, could wriggle out of this one easily enough. “No,” she says, instead, and slides her hands beneath her thighs to keep from fidgeting. “And you?”

“Nope,” Shepard shakes her head. For a moment, Shepard thinks Dr. T’Soni is about to bolt. Instead, she says:

“I am curious,” in that quiet, hesitant way that she has whenever she thinks she’s prying too far into something she shouldn’t (Shepard nods her head in encouragement), “and, forgive me for asking, but why did you leave the military?”

“Ah, there it is.”

“I shouldn’t have asked, should I?”

“I don’t mind,” Shepard grins, and it’s the truth. She doesn’t mind. She was, actually, surprised it took Dr. T’Soni this long to ask. “I was released with honourable discharge.”

“Your own choice?” Dr. T’Soni asks, leaning her crossed arms on the table.

“No, not really.” Shepard shakes her head; her smile is rueful. “Kind of. I could have stayed, done something other than grunt work, but…” She angles her right leg out beneath the table and Dr. T’Soni tilts her head to follow the movement. Shepard gives her knee a pat. “We hit a thresher’s nest. Should have been standard procedure, but the damn vehicle started flaming; we had to get out. The bastard took one look at me and thought, _there's lunch_. I didn’t even feel it, at first, but then I’m being dragged around by an overgrown worm that has its jaws clamped around my leg.

“Twisted it up something nasty.” She scrunches her nose for effect. “I heard this horrible cracking, crunching noise, but there was so much adrenaline pumping through me, it took me a while to realise that it was… me.”

The colour drains from Dr. T’Soni’s face.

“By the Goddess…”

Shepard will pay for this; there goes her good karma.

She keeps a straight face for maybe five seconds longer, and then loses it spectacularly in laughter. It takes Dr. T’Soni a moment to realise what’s happened. She sits back in her chair quickly, even slumps a little, and narrows her eyes. If only she could hide that smile, Shepard might think she’s gone too far.

“You’re very imaginative,” Dr. T’Soni says once Shepard has regained her composure. “Truly, your talent is wasted in here.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Shepard grins, shrugging. “It works for shits and giggles, still. I thought you were going to turn white.”

Dr. T’Soni guffaws, but her smile widens. She shakes her head at Shepard and thinks, _I’m in trouble_. _I am in so much trouble._

“Your ability to lie is rather impressive, I’ll admit.”

Shepard nods her head, “thank you.”

“I’m not sure that’s a compliment,” Dr. T’Soni teases (but that smile, again, it gives her away each time).

“I think I’m still going to take it as one…”

“Oh, really?”

“Mm,” Shepard grins, nods her head. “See, I also have a talent for drawing compliments out of beautiful women.”

It’s shameless and she’s gone too far. Shepard knows it as soon as Dr. T’Soni’s smile tightens, lips pursing, pushing it down. She sits up straighter in her seat, runs her hands down her skirt, and downright refuses to meet Shepard’s gaze. Instead, she focuses on the leg that Shepard still has sticking out at an odd angle from the table. She wets her lips.

“It is a prosthetic, though?” she asks, and Shepard wiggles her toes around and takes a brief moment to marvel at the complexities of modern technology.

“Yeah, it is.”

“So you’re not a _complete_ liar.” It’s said teasingly, and when Shepard next looks up she catches Dr. T’Soni smiling at her. It’s almost playful, until the Professor catches herself and looks away once more. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Shepard tucks her leg back beneath the table and leans into her seat. “Unless you sent the rabid varren that bit me.”

“Varren?”

“Mhm, nasty infection.” She grimaces at the reminder.

Dr. T’Soni blinks. “I can see why you might prefer to… exaggerate the truth.”

Shepard laughs again, but whatever spell carried them through the past hour has officially ran its course. Dr. T’Soni shifts in her seat with a tell-tale kind of anxiety. She looks from their empty cups to the hands in her lap, and then finally meets Shepard’s gaze. Her lips twitch, part and then close, as though she’d wanted to say something and then thought better of it.

“I have to get back to work,” she settles on, eventually.

“Yeah, I’d better find my next class.”

That, at least, makes Dr. T’Soni pause as she’s reaching for her bag. “You’re finding your way around okay?”

“Yeah,” Shepard grins, “I’m good, but thanks.”

Dr. T’Soni dips her head. She stands with her bag and draws it onto her shoulder with both hands, then looks down to Shepard like she isn’t quite sure what to say.

“I’ll see you next week,” Shepard offers, and that seems to be enough.

“Yes,” she nods, “you will.”

“Thanks for the coffee.”

“Goodbye, Jane.”

 

Shepard watches her Professor leave, her eyes tracking the faint sway of hips that she’s sure Dr. T’Soni isn’t even aware she’s making. Once she’s out of sight, Shepard catches herself – makes herself sit down and cast a sweeping gaze around the room to root herself back in reality (not the fantasy where she makes off with the hot teacher, and damnit, how old is she, again?)

Alone with her thoughts, she can’t help but wonder if she’s doing this college thing wrong or very, very right.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, finally, the reveal of Shepard’s flatmate. This is possibly my most treasured AU, just so you know. Honestly, this fic is turning into such a guilty pleasure for me, I almost feel bad about writing it… Anyway. I am quite uncertain about this chapter. We'll see how it goes.
> 
> Also, a note for the future: as this is the Mass Effect universe that I’m meddling in, there will probably eventually be strong themes of PTSD and other mental illnesses that may be unpleasant to read within this story. Nothing as of yet is particularly graphic, but as soon as anything graphic does crop up (if it crops up) I’ll put a little warning in the chapter notes and update the tags so that nobody who wants to skip that stuff gets a nasty surprise. If anyone has any other requests in terms of trigger warnings/breaking up the text to make any trigger/smut/etc. sections easily skip-able, I’m open to suggestions. :)

Shepard begins her essay with a glass of wine.

Honestly, that should have been the first clue that she wasn’t finishing it tonight.

She’s two months into her first term and the workload is beginning to pile up. One half of her brain is telling her to duck for cover, and the other is telling her that she’s faced down a team of krogan mercs almost singlehandedly. In the words of her ever eloquent flatmate: _don’t be such a pussy, Shepard_.

The stress doesn’t bother her. At least, it doesn’t yet. This is stress with reason – required reading, essay writing, deadlines, and all in such limited time. She can deal with this kind of stress; it makes sense. It also seems to be taking the spotlight off that _other_ kind of stress – the one that wakes her in the middle of the night and shoves her down one side of her bed, hiding from an attack that isn’t going to come.

But mainly, and more especially on nights like tonight, stress is stress and Shepard can’t be fucked with any of it.

10pm, colony time, finds her with her head in her hands and a pen in her mouth. She’s been planning. Her sheet of paper has the word ‘arguments’ at the centre with a circle around it, and four spindly legs coming off it. The rest of the page is blank. Every now and then, Shepard flicks through a news article on her datapad. She’d started with the best intentions; academic papers, interviews, source material. Obviously, she’s gone wrong somewhere, and now finds herself scrolling through an article about climate change.

Staring blankly at the screen, she lets her mind wander. What is Dr. T’Soni doing right now? What is Dr. T’Soni _wearing_ right now? Shepard imagines her curled up on a sofa somewhere, probably with one of her datapads in hand, a glass of wine in the other, dressed for bed in something soft – something silky...

She lets the thought trail off and wishes it didn’t leave her vaguely dry-mouthed.

Shit, she has so much work to do.

She’s about to turn her datapad off and write something (probably just the title of her essay), when the sound of a closing door signals her flatmate’s return. Shepard checks the time on her omni-tool and frowns. Seconds later, a plastic bag filled with something heavy and metallic lands on the table in front of her.

“Shit, you still at it?”

“Drinking alone, Jack?”

Jack stops unpacking a six pack to flip up her middle finger. “I see your glass of wine, Goldilocks.”

Wine? Oh, what do you know? She _is_ drinking alone. “Then I retract my comment…”

“Too little, too fuckin’ late.” Jack stops once she’s unwrapped her goods and takes the six pack in one hand, frowning down at the spider diagram Shepard has barely started. “You’ve made literally no progress since I last saw you.”

“Hey, I’ve been brainstorming. This is a process, it takes time.” She scrunches up her nose. “And Goldilocks was blonde. That’s… kind of the whole point.”

Jack doesn’t look convinced. She nods her head slowly – “whatever, Shepard,” – and then makes her retreat.

Shepard frowns at the back of her head. “Buy a canvas bag next time,” she yells after her. “You’re killing the planet.”

Jack’s door closes in response.

 

The following Monday greets Shepard bright and early.

She wakes up before her alarm and knows it’s going to be a good day. She remembers the essay she finished the night before, and shit, if the sun doesn’t shine all the brighter through her closed curtains for it. She rises, stretches, and has enough time to walk at a leisurely pace (a luxury she won’t ever take for granted) to catch her bus. Even her brief interaction with her flatmate this morning was verging on _friendly_.

(“Uh… so, you’re going to clean the vomit up from the toilet seat, right?”

“Eat my entire ass, Shepard.”

“Tea?”

“Please.”)

 

As she passes through campus, she forgoes her typical routine and skips past the line at the coffee shop. She has plans, and also the caffeine thing might be fucking with her sleeping pattern, but it’s been so long since she last had a good night’s sleep, who even knows by now? She slips into class with a smile on her face, takes her seat, and dumps her bag on the desk.

The noise rouses Dr. T’Soni from the datapad she is studying. Her eyes widen briefly when she realises Shepard is staring at her.

“Jane?”

“Dr. T’Soni.”

“You have a troubling look on your face.”

“Oh, yeah? What’s it look like?”

“You’re _smirking_.”

Shepard lets out a short laugh. She does a lot of laughing these days, and Liara thinks it is almost always at her expense. If she didn’t enjoy the sound of it so much, she’d maybe be annoyed. She’s spent a great deal of her life being laughed at for various reasons, but there’s no malice in Jane’s chuckle, and her smiles only widen when Liara returns them.

Not that any of that is relevant. It’s really not. It just makes her teaching experience all the more comfortable.

It would be such a shame if, say, oh… she was beginning to acknowledge the slow stirring up of something more than physical attraction for one of her students, wouldn’t it? _Such_ a shame. She almost wants to throttle herself each night, but then she’d only miss the two hours every Monday morning that she gets to spend stumbling over her words while Jane finds new and inventive ways to display her flexing arm muscles.

(She really is quite creative, Liara has to admit.)

Still.

She is her student, and Liara is a professional, and she has spent long enough trying to make others recognise that for her to… for her to… Shepard runs her tongue slowly over her lips, sucking the bottom one into her mouth, only to release it between her teeth with a _pop_. For a moment, she forgets where she is – who she is. And then Shepard grins because she’s caught her, and Liara is sent navy-faced and internally cursing herself back to her lesson preparations.

It’s the first and only verbal interaction of the entire lesson, and yet fumble through her words she does, while Jane stretches and flexes and probably gives half of the students on the row directly behind her a boner. Liara can’t really fault them for being distracted, when she herself stumbles over the same sentence three times while Jane is in the process of removing her hoodie.

She’ll have to have words, is her first thought after dismissing her class. This can’t go on. She is a professional, she is a tutor, she is a mentor to these students and Jane Shepard is under her care, whether or not she needs it. (And Dr. T’Soni has seen a hint of mouth-watering muscle beneath the hem of those distracting tank tops she insists on wearing; she _knows_ Shepard doesn’t need it.

That’s not the point.)

She has to deal with this little… infatuation, and quickly, unless she wants to jeopardise her entire career.

She will look back to this moment within the future, point it out to others and say, _look. There. I had the purest intentions from the beginning._ What follows after, however, will undo her words before she has any chance to explain herself. She won’t really care so much about that, by then.

 

Jane lingers behind after class like she always does. It no longer surprises Liara now to look up from where she’s packing away her tools, only to find Jane sitting back in her seat, sometimes with her feet upon the desk (the gall of her), looking for all the world like she hasn’t a better thing to do with her time than watch Liara blush as she packs away too many datapads. Today is no different, but there is _something_ that, while not unusual, stands out.

Jane is still smiling. It is a smug look and Liara is instantly a little concerned.

“You’re in a good mood,” she points out, not unkindly.

Shepard shrugs her shoulders. She has already packed away her equipment and is slouching in her chair while she waits for Dr. T’Soni to do the same, arms crossed beneath the bust and her feet planted firmly apart on the floor. She tips her head to one side and a lock of red, red hair falls into her eyes. She barely seems to notice, but Liara’s fingers twitch with the urge to fix it.

“I am.”

“Is there a reason for that?” It’s asked casually, but Liara belies her nonchalance with those wide, blue eyes.

“Does there have to be one?”

“Of course not.” She slips her bag’s straps up onto her shoulder and tries not to smile when Jane stands up with absolutely no pretence that she was waiting for her, specifically. If anyone could see them now… But Jane is smirking in that way she has, and Liara has always had a knack for disappointing her superiors. “But there is one, if your smile is anything to go by.”

“Perhaps there is,” Shepard shrugs. She moves around their desks, so close together now that they’re practically touching, and perches against her Professor’s. Liara sees this direct invasion of her personal space as an invitation. She stands stock still and wonders where Shepard is leading her. “So… coffee?”

_Ah_. She should have known.

“Jane…”

“I haven’t had my fix today,” Shepard pouts, and then changes tactics. “And… if anyone asks, I can always say I’m struggling with your class.” She shrugs her shoulders as though she’s figured it all out. Liara doesn’t doubt that she has. “Maybe they’ll even suggest a tutor. You know, one on one?”

“You’re not struggling with my class.”

She is, in fact, performing at better than average.

Shepard grins in response.

“They don’t need to know that.”

“Jane.” Dr. T’Soni grabs the straps of her bag with one hand; the other presses firmly against her fluttering stomach. “You know this isn’t appropriate.”

She says it quietly, almost wishing it could go unheard, and then internally curses herself. Shepard, however, doesn’t seem at all phased. She nods her head, even shrugs a little ( _eh, what’re you gonna do?_ Like it’s a game they’re playing), and crosses her arms again. They stare each other down. Liara feels her legs turn weak.

“Coffee,” Shepard says eventually, “doesn’t have to be inappropriate.”

“It doesn’t?”

“No, and see, I have some questions regarding the course—”

“Ah,” Liara cuts in; she will not fall for that one again, “then I can answer your _questions_ now. There’s no need for coffee.”

But that smile – it will be her downfall. She has accepted this. Shepard takes it like a lifeline, runs with it, unravels Liara until it’s all that is left of her. _That smile_. Shepard shakes her head, even frowns a little. There is literally nothing subtle about her, and Liara greatly enjoys it.

“Except, I’m very thirsty… and, I don’t know, doc, you look pretty thirsty yourself.”

Liara takes a deep breath in.

She glances once towards the window looking out onto the corridor, and then at the closed door. She waits for the metal to slide open and for her superior to march through, a datapad in hand, requesting her agreement to respectfully forfeit her position before she can do anything untoward. Obviously, nobody arrives. Her fingers tighten and then release her bag straps. She turns back to Shepard.

She wonders what in Athame’s name she is doing.

“This is very unprofessional,” she sighs, and Shepard grins like she has no shame in the world.

“You’ll get coffee with me?”

“Oh, no.”

That wipes the smile off her face. “What?”

“As I said,” Dr. T’Soni steps around Jane, towards the door, “it would be unprofessional. I will, however, be purchasing a cup of Earl Grey at the lake side café.” She tips her head to one side in thought. “Also, a cookie.”

“Ah,” grinning, again, Shepard trails after her, “and if I happen to be purchasing coffee at the same location…”

“That would be purely coincidence, Jane.”

 

Shepard grins all the way to the coffee shop’s counter, and beyond.

Dr. T’Soni sends her _a look_ (please stop making this so obvious), and Shepard grins and grins and ignores it completely. Liara shakes her head, and now she is smiling and self-consciously glancing around her to make sure that they don’t have an audience. It’s not yet lunch time and the coffee shop is still relatively empty. She shuffles closer to the counter, trying to relax. She is not used to this.

“You’re very tense,” Shepard says, which does not help at all. Liara narrows her eyes. “Perhaps we should have taken this little coffee date off campus, huh?”

“This is not a coffee date,” Liara corrects her.

“Oh, no?”

“No, Jane. We just happen to be purchasing hot beverages at the same venue.”

“At the same time.”

“Coincidentally,” Dr. T’Soni stresses.

“Right, right,” because Shepard can play along, “and by the looks of things, there’s only one table with a good view of the lake in this place, so perhaps you wouldn’t mind if we shared it? You know, coincidentally.”

Liara hums, but she can’t hide her smile. “Who says I will be sitting in?”

Shepard gives her a look like a wounded salarian and Liara huffs an amused little sigh.

“ _Coincidentally_ ,” she tells Shepard very pointedly, “and I can’t stay long.”

“You know what?” Shepard grabs a bar of chocolate off a shelf and steps into line behind Liara. “That might be my new favourite word.”

 

“Okay,” Shepard squares her shoulders, cracks her knuckles, and narrows her eyes, “I’ve got one.”

Liara takes an amused sip of tea. The markings above her eyes rise indulgently over the rim of her teacup.

“I once helped a salarian gather information on the keepers at the Citadel.” Liara manages to lower her teacup before sputtering into it. “Super top secret stuff,” Shepard continues. “I must have scanned nearly ever keeper in that place right beneath C-Sec’s nose. On the down-low, you know?”

“That doesn’t sound legal.”

“I don’t think it was.”

“Well?”

Shepard blinks.

“The data,” Liara prompts. “What did the salarian discover?”

“Oh.” Shepard purses her lips in thought. Then, she frowns. “You know, he never really did get back to me about that…”

Liara looks at her incredulously. She feels laughter bubbling beneath her sternum and holds her breath to keep it in. She will not make a scene here, not with so many people liable to see. Her chest is beginning to ache with all the pressure she has been putting on herself to hold her girlish giggling inside. Shepard has a list of ridiculous stories as long as her arm, and, worse still, she’s _funny_. Liara has no doubt that it is for her benefit.

She wonders how many stories Shepard has that would end in chilling silence, and shivers.

“That is quite ridiculous,” she finally concedes.

“Mhm.” Shepard’s nod is nothing short of proud. She takes a sip of coffee. “Your turn.”

Liara sets her teacup between both hands and hums, “let me see.” Shepard spins the salt and pepper shakers while she waits, tapping her fingers against the glass. Liara watches, chewing the inside of her cheek, and then her blue, blue eyes widen. “Okay,” she says, and Shepard grins in anticipation, “I think you’ll like this one.”

“I’m all ears.”

_Yes, you are_ , Liara smirks, but holds her tongue.

“I once got trapped in a prothean security device for five days with nothing but my thoughts for company.”

“You’re shitting me.”

Liara shakes her head. “I am not.”

“Alright,” Shepard is gawping, but there’s a hint of a smile on her lips that says _not what I was expecting_ (Liara can’t help but feel a little proud of the sight), “you can’t just stop there. This dig site – where were you?”

“You’ve been to the Artemis Tau cluster?” Shepard nods her head. “In the Knossos System, a planet called Therum.”

“Therum,” Shepard repeats, sitting back in her chair. “I’ve heard of that.”

“I believe Earth benefits greatly from its mining industry,” Liara supplies, and Shepard clicks her fingers in acknowledgement. “I travelled there alone, as I usually did back then. I could go between dig sites for weeks, sometimes without seeing a single other person along the way. I became very accustomed to my own company.”

“No doubt,” Shepard snorts, but instantly sobers. She’s _interested_. Liara feels a little light-headed. “So, what happened?”

“Very little,” she sighs, and her eyes slip to the table top, the teacup between her hands, turning glassy and faintly un-seeing. “I was in a mining tunnel. The ruins down there were… On the first day, I simply walked through them, afraid to touch anything. The sheer size of the structure alone overwhelmed me a little; I wasn’t sure where to start.”

She snaps back, suddenly, as though remembering her audience. Shepard leans her crossed arms on the table, eager to learn more.

“I moved my supplies with me on the second day, into one of the emptier caverns. I knew I would be down there for a while, but…”

“You didn’t foresee being trapped in an ancient security device,” Shepard offers, one corner of her mouth turning up.

“No, I did not.” She quickly collects herself. “I think I must have… hit a button. Something that I should not have pressed. In hindsight, I rushed through a lot of things that I usually handle more carefully. I was very excited. I thought I could have been on the cusp of a breakthrough in my research, something that might give me a clue as to how and why the protheans disappeared.”

Dr. T’Soni sits back with a sigh. There is a look on her face that Shepard is… uncertain of.

“I remember touching something – a control panel. I was not surprised that the technology was still functioning, but it did excite me.” She meets Shepard’s eyes with a sardonic little smile. “And then I found myself enveloped in a stasis field.”

“A stasis field?” Shepard frowns, imagining it. “How big are we talking here?”

“Hm, room-sized?”

“Shit.”

“Indeed.”

“You couldn’t move at all?”

Liara smiles and shakes her head. Her spine tingles as she remembers the sensation, but she pushes it down, tucks it away. She is used to doing that.

“I realised quickly how dire the situation was,” she offers, wetting her lips. “I was trapped inside a giant blue bubble with no access to any means of communication with the outside world. I had told no friends or family specifically where I was going, or how long to expect before I return. I had spoken with very few people on Therum, and not about my research.”

Across the table, Shepard considers her. Liara does not doubt that the soldier has found herself in many a precarious situation. She cannot help but feel that she is being judged; she does not know if that is necessarily a bad thing. Still, she shifts under Shepard’s intense gaze, pulls her feet beneath her chair and tucks her ankles together.

“You said you were down there for five days?” Liara nods her head. “What was that like?”

“It was terrifying,” Dr. T’Soni says, smiling in a way that asks, _isn’t that much obvious?_ She sighs again and shakes her head. “I’ve never been in a situation like that before. Of course, travelling alone has its dangers, and I was used to the tight confinement of buried ruins. I avoided others in my travels for a reason, and it had always paid off, until that moment.”

She blinks across at Jane again and says, “I was terrified,” as though she has to remind herself.

Shepard tilts her head to one side in thought.

“I tried calling out. I was very far down. I would hear my own voice echoing back to me, at times, and think I was saved.” She takes a deep breath. “And then the hunger and dehydration set in…

“I couldn’t see any daylight, I had no idea what time it was or how long I had been trapped down there. I… stopped expecting a rescue.”

That sits between them silently until Liara continues, gaze on her tea, fingers tracing the handle.

“When they showed up, eventually, ah—two human miners. I don’t think they were even supposed to be down there. I had stopped calling out, so they couldn’t have heard me.” She swallows thickly, reeling herself back in. “When they showed up, I thought I had begun to hallucinate. I am quite sure I insulted them, actually. They were very accommodating. I explained how to disable the stasis field, and they took me to a nearby colony for treatment.”

Now that she’s said it, Liara cannot help but wonder why she has brought this story up.

She sits with her head bowed, her eyes fixed firmly on the steaming surface of her tea. She is slow in meeting Shepard’s gaze again. She worries, for a while, that she might have completely ruined the mood. This is not a story she should have brought up here – and with Jane Shepard, of all people. She feels faintly ashamed for airing her one and only perilous experience to a woman who has served in the _Alliance military_ , for Athame’s sake.

Slowly, cautiously, she meets Jane’s gaze.

Shepard is still watching her thoughtfully. She says nothing for a while and Liara grows restless.

“Now that I’ve said that out loud,” she begins, already apologetic, “I realise it is not as light-hearted as I intended for it to be.”

That brings a smile to Jane’s lips, at least.

“Was there any hesitation, after that?” she asks. “Any… uncertainty about continuing?”

Liara’s wide eyes fix upon hers. They share a very _telling_ look.

“No.”

“How long after until you gave up archaeology?”

Liara swallows the lump in her throat.

“Almost instantly,” she whispers, and Shepard nods her head.

She’d thought as much.

Dr. T’Soni shifts in her seat. Shepard’s eyes are steady and knowing and too pretty for her own good. Liara shies away from them – casts a glance around the room and remembers where she is. She remembers who she is. She takes a deep breath in and straightens. As an afterthought, she takes a small sip of her tea.

When she meets Shepard’s gaze, again, the _look_ has gone. Liara breathes a little easier for it.

“It is almost noon,” she says, and Shepard knows instantly that she is leaving.

A torrent of questions bubble up, but she suppresses them. Shepard is used to demanding answers; if not for authority’s sake, she has become quite deft at intimidating the answers that she seeks out of others. In this case, however, she swallows the questions back down. She wonders, faintly, what the fuck has just happened.

Across from her, Dr. T’Soni sets her unfinished tea back down on a saucer and reaches for her bag.

“I’ll see you next week,” Jane says.

It comes out more like a question. Liara’s eyes widen at the sound of it. She turns quickly back to Shepard and nods her head.

“Of course.”

“And,” because something about this has given her hope, “perhaps we can… do this again?”

“Jane.”

It’s not a ‘no’.

“Or I could… _coincidentally_ buy you lunch some time.” She rubs her eye with one finger, but she’s smiling, and Dr. T’Soni is smiling, and the pressure on her chest slowly ebbs away. “You know how that happens, sometimes.”

“Indeed.” Dr. T’Soni stands with a smile. In any other company, it would be considered polite, but Shepard sees the way her eyes shine. Still. She clutches her handbag to her shoulder and considers Shepard with a look. She appears, for a moment, quite confused. Then she blinks, and Dr. T’Soni is back before her, sure and steady as a great, calming wave. “We will see.”

“So, is that a ‘yes’?”

Dr. T’Soni grins and shakes her head.

“Goodbye, Jane.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!
> 
> I was worried there was going to be a huge delay with this chapter, but alas. Inspiration. I started writing it, got nearly a quarter of the way in, and then scrapped it all and began again. Also, I found a really great fic - so great that I have to recommend it. I'm mentioning it only because it's Aria T'Loak/Tevos and I think some people here may enjoy it...? (Or are probably already reading it.) It's called 'Goddess Bless the Queen' by sigmalied over on ff.net. I can't even explain how much I love it. If chapters are delayed within the future, blame it on me being too busy to write because I'm reading this fic. 
> 
> I'm still figuring out how to work Aria into this story, though I have accepted that she will make an appearance eventually. That's actually kind of a lie. I have worked out exactly how to write her in, but am wondering if I'm a big enough of a shit as I think I am to go through with it. We'll see. 
> 
> Anyway! This is a long note. Also, are these chapters steadily getting longer...? ach. Enjoy?

The conversation replays itself.

Shepard is accustomed to blocking out background noise, whether its source is distant gunfire, the train that passes a little too close for comfort above her apartment, or the sound of a distant bass line thrumming through Jack’s bedroom wall. Over the years, she’s become particularly adept at turning her attention elsewhere. More importantly, it’s this kind of background noise that she needs, in part. She may have had one of the most advanced warships in the galaxy under her command, but even she could not afford the luxury of silence.

Shepard is used to noise, is the point, and a part of her also likes it – needs it.

Silence does not treat Shepard well. Silence is the wait before an ambush; silence is the ear damage after a barely escaped explosion; silence is the calm of an empty extraction point, the wounded retreat of a thresher maw, the answer given when she looks out at the no-man’s-land littered with her fallen team and asks herself what happens next.

And now, Shepard begs for it.

She beats her fingers on the kitchen table, closes her eyes, adds the tapping of one foot, and tries to block out her thoughts. In her mind, Dr. T’Soni’s voice is a contradiction of cool and warm, rich and meek, teasing and nervous. She thinks of the moment before Dr. T’Soni fled the coffee shop, her teacup half-full and still hot to the touch, and lets a heavy sigh join her distressed symphony.

Shepard is used to analysing a situation in under a few seconds; that is what she does. She has training in discerning basic body language, and, above all, her gut instinct is typically flawless. These are skills that she has made her living on, saved her life with; she may have lost her title and her ship, but _not these_.

Now, however, these same skills are going into overdrive.

What had that strange conversation meant? Shepard thinks she knows the answer already, and until proven otherwise, she takes this as a small half-truth. So, then, that established, what does it _mean_? And, more importantly, why does it make her feel so… _restless_?

Her noise at the table is suddenly and momentarily blotted out as the hum of sound from Jack’s bedroom turns into a blare. The noise blots out her disquiet thoughts and she sighs again with the reprieve, lets her body relax, and looks up to greet Jack as her bedroom door slides to a close behind her.

Jack takes one look at her fidgeting and frowns, but it’s a look with more intrigue than distaste. “Are you on something?”

“I wish.” She rubs tiredly at her eyes.

Jack casts her another thoughtful look as she bends into the refrigerator. As a second thought, perhaps, she loops her slender fingers around the neck of a second beer bottle and then retreats. She slides the second bottle across the table to Shepard as she straddles the chair opposite her; it knocks her datapad askew before she can catch it.

Across from her, Jack sets her hands on the table, squares her shoulders, and narrows her eyes at her. Shepard holds very, very still. Finally, Jack relaxes and her gaze turns less intense. She tips her head to one side, wraps a glowing blue hand around the cap of her beer bottle, and twists it off. Shepard bangs hers off on the edge of the table. They take a drink.

“You look like shit,” Jack says, which is about as concerned as Shepard has ever heard her.

“Thanks,” at this point, she isn’t really insulted, “I didn’t sleep well last night.”

“Yeah, or every other night before that,” Jack scoffs, and Shepard sends her a look, daring her to elaborate. “Shit, Shepard, I’ve known people to scream themselves to sleep at night, but you’re something special.”

Shepard narrows her eyes. She couldn’t have found a nice, quiet (polite) flatmate who had a semblance of understanding of socially acceptable human interactions, could she? The thought leaves her a little guilty, but not enough to keep from glaring at Jack through another sip of beer. She knows little about Jack, but enough to relate to her in some (very few) instances, and is under no illusion that Jack has not scoured the extranet for every piece of intel she can find on Shepard, what with how prepared she had come to her flat viewing.

(And isn’t _that_ becoming a running theme among her circle of close acquaintances, huh?)

She has the very unsettling feeling that if anyone can look upon her history and make light of it, it is Jack.

Still.

That doesn’t make her any less of an asshole for it, as Shepard often reminds her.

“You know, you’re not so quiet yourself, Jack,” she quips back a little spitefully. If anything, Jack looks more impressed that she’s gone there than insulted. “Your little cave,” she tilts her head in the direction of Jack’s damask bedroom, “isn’t exactly sound-proof.”

“So, throw me out,” Jack shrugs, tipping her head back for an indulgent sip of beer, and Shepard glares at her anew because they both know she won’t resort to that. Not yet, anyway. When Jack sets her beer bottle down again, it’s with a hollow _thunk_ that confirms it has been drained. “But let me help you out first.”

She reaches across the table for Shepard’s datapad, and Shepard is suddenly overcome with an overwhelming sense of foreboding.

“Jack…”

“Shut up, I’m doing you a favour.”

She taps around a few times, her lips slowly pulling into a wide smirk that does nothing to ease Shepard’s concern, and then stands up from her chair. As a last parting gift, she adjusts the volume, setting it as high as it can go, and then slides the datapad back along to Shepard.

“Embrace the student lifestyle while you can,” she winks, and then she is gone.

Shepard has just enough time to catch the datapad before it knocks into her beer bottle. Before she can take one look at the screen, an unmistakably female groan blares out, loud and obscene. Shepard’s eyes bug. She turns the datapad the right way up, only to confirm her suspicion that Jack has ( _of course she fucking has_ ) directed her to a porn site. Cursing, she quickly closes the window and shoots an incredulous glare at Jack.

She’s almost too far away already for Shepard to successfully throw anything at the back of her head.

She tries anyway.

 

By Friday’s mid-evening, the changeable weather finally makes up its mind and the overcast skies let out a torrent of rain.

The autumn heat is slipping into warm days and departing with cold nights, and catches Shepard between the two as she makes a lazy jog across campus into the cover of the library’s automatic doors. Either because of the weather, or the catharsis that comes at the end of each school week, she does not go directly home that evening, but slips among the library’s gargantuan resources until the ends of her hair are dry.

While the colony she’s residing in has a human majority, and therefore an arguably human system on which its days run (with the necessary changes made to accommodate the planet’s distance from the sun), the university itself is prestigious enough to call to students from across the galaxy. Its student body pays enough for their education that the library can afford to house a good chunk of its resources in solid text format, with each section divided by both race, externally, and language, internally.

Shepard is of the minimal disposition that she takes out whatever texts she needs on her datapad, checking them out on the automatic system, but today she lingers through the shelves of human resources, pausing briefly in the literature section, before continuing on her way. English falls into Estonian, Fijian, Filipino, the number of texts tapering off significantly and then making a resurgence around French and German.

She lets her gaze slide over the books on the shelf that meets her eye-level, unrecognising most of the languages or the titles they proudly present to her. Alone, and in near-silence, her thoughts make an expected return, and they return to one subject in particular. At this point, Shepard is a walking stereotype.

She’s drawn out of the seclusion of her own mind only when she reaches a break in the looming aisles on either side of her and continues on into a new section. It is equally quiet as the last, with a few people picking at shelves, pushing sliding ladders into position, and poring between pages. The only noise that permeates the air is the sound of hushed whispers and turning paper; it soothes Shepard’s mind until she returns her focus to the titles on the shelves, only to realise that she can’t understand them.

It’s not a shock, at first. She’s been gazing over languages she can’t read for the past few minutes, but there’s something… decidedly different about the format of these texts. She’s frowning by the time she reaches the end of a section, and continues into the next, hesitating once before deciding to take a book at random from the shelf.

She opens it near the middle and lets the natural setting of pages guide her to its centre. She skims her eyes over the words, the letters printed in a format that is both orderly and also slightly… delicate. She takes a look towards the gently illuminated signs that mark each shelf and aisle alike, but they too are written in the alien language that she cannot decipher. Folding the book into one hand, she accesses her omni-tool with the other and brings its opaque orange screen over the book.

The text is instantly translated into English, and Shepard skims a section on botany native to the swamplands of Chalkhos. _Chalkhos_. Shepard turns the name over in her mind, closing the book and sliding it carefully back into the gap she had created by liberating it from the shelf. _Chalkhos_.

It comes to her like a slap to the head.

Chalkhos, an asari garden world in the Terminus system.

So, she’s in the asari section. She takes a second glance around her and then nearly does slap herself about the head; the only people occupying the space, aside from herself, are asari. A few of them send her curious glances, but Shepard does not cast the kind of shadow that many throw insults at.

Still, she does not linger.

She is rounding a corner to take her out of the current aisles of books and towards a more populated area, when she stops short. Sitting at a desk no more than a few meters ahead of her is —Shepard blinks, takes a second glance, and no, she’s not wrong – her history professor. Shepard hesitates, her eyes finally leaving her professor to see what she’s doing at the desk. She is framed almost symmetrically by equally tall piles of books, one of her many datapads before her, and also a pad of paper.

Dr. T’Soni brings the end of her pen to her mouth, taps her bottom lip three times, sets her hand patiently beneath her chin, and then frowns down at her own cursive handwriting. Shepard smiles at the sight, and already a plan formulates that has her backtracking towards the asari literature section, activating her omni-tool’s translator along the way.

 

Eventually, after a long and near-painful process of ignoring her procrastination in the hopes that it will go away, Liara T’Soni concedes to her restless state and drops her pen. She imagines the action could be described as particularly significant in a year’s time; perhaps one day she will be asked, in detail, to specify at which point she lost the cool resolution that had led her through her academic career for years without fail.

This is that moment.

She covers her face with her hands, rubbing her fingertips into the grooves at the corners of her eyes, and then removes them. She slips her elbows onto the table, hunching into the desk, and clasps her hands together, hiding her mouth between them. She stares listlessly down at her notes. She wonders if she will ever be able to concentrate again.

Not while a certain student still attends the university, at least.

She closes her eyes at the thought, sighing in near-silent reprimand, because here she is again, thinking of Jane Shepard when she has a workload longer than her arm to complete. No more. She takes a deep breath in, clears her mind, and tells herself that she will finish her work, or so help her…

She opens her eyes.

She balks at the sight.

Sitting at the desk directly in front of hers, facing her no less, is a faintly smiling Jane Shepard.

She’s lost it, is Liara’s first thought. She has willed a delusion into life through sheer thought-power. She almost hides once again behind her hands at the thought, and then… Shepard’s smile widens, ever so briefly, at her professor’s surprise. She looks down at the pile of books in front of her, and Dr. T’Soni sends a helpless glance around the aisle, more out of habit than any real cautiousness.

(She is doing no wrong, she insists to herself, and would believe it if her traitorous heart wasn’t beating a bruise against her ribcage.)

When she looks back to Shepard, a book has been raised, the asari title proudly displayed if obscured partially by Shepard’s palm. All that is left of the front page is a large, sober _Greetings_. Liara allows herself a small smirk and the markings above her eyes rise indulgently.

 _Hello, Shepard_.

Pleased that she is being humoured, Shepard sets the book down and prepares another. Liara watches with barely concealed affection. This time, a hardback is lifted, its back to Liara while Shepard works out where her hands should be. When she turns it, Liara has to fight her smile from widening, tenfold.

_u Look nic E_

Behind the safety of her clasped hands, Liara bites her lip. She blinks slowly across at Jane, attempting to convey – her thanks, amusement, or simply her bashfulness? (She succeeds, without fail, in at least the latter of that inexhaustive list.) Shepard’s grin widens again. She sends Liara a vaguely self-deprecating look, a _sorry I couldn’t do better_ , and Liara has to stop herself from shaking her head.

Again, Shepard lowers the book, and another takes its place within seconds. The switch does not give her enough time to brace herself for what she finds next, the word a shocking purple against its pastel background, looming out at her with enough suggestion – _invitation_ – to send her heartbeat rocketing.

_Come_

Liara’s eyes widen, her gaze quickly shifting to Shepard’s face to decipher the unambiguous _instruction_ that she has been given. Shepard’s expression does not change; she sets the book down, as before, and deliberately rises from her seat. The look she sends Liara can only be described as a dare – she is being _implored_ to break every single one of her already fracturing rules, and, worse still, Liara thinks she might actually acquiesce.

Before she can protest the situation, Shepard disappears, leaving Liara a tightly stretched band that could (and, most likely, will) snap at any second, launching her in a vague enough direction so as to not make her following, her _complying_ , obvious.

Goddess, what has she gotten herself into…

 

Liara hesitates three whole minutes before following.

Even then, she goes with a disguise, clutching a book to her chest that, should anyone else be lurking between the aisles that Shepard has drawn her into, she can easily slide back into place before retreating. Her fingers pale with the strength of tension with which she holds the book, her eyes wide and uncertain as she walks slowly into the aisle Shepard has disappeared down.

The first aisle comes up empty of Jane Shepards, and so Dr. T’Soni keeps walking, her feet growing heavier and slower the further along she goes. She is almost certain that she has confused the situation (how could she confuse the situation?), that Shepard was making a joke, that she can walk the entire length and width of this library in its entirety and still not find Jane lurking in some shadowy corner.

And if she doesn’t? Her heart sinks at the prospect, and Liara neatly and automatically (if ineffectually) admonishes herself. If Shepard has sent her on a treasure hunt through the library for nought, if she has skipped out on her because, what does Liara know, it is some strange human pastime that they have? In that case, she should be relieved.

(She considers the idea. She knows, among whatever else she will be feeling, _relief_ surely will not find her.)

Her footsteps carry her further and further away from the safety of her desk, the datapad she has left out, well secured against any malevolent attempts at prying into her personal files (however unlikely that is), and towards the end of the aisle that she is sure – no, she is certain – that Jane disappeared down. When she reaches a junction in shelves, Dr. T’Soni steps out of the aisles and looks around her. From here, she can see into three other aisles, all of which are empty.

Curious.

She turns to her right, and is briefly distracted by a floor-to-ceiling length window, the glass thick enough that she cannot hear the rain that is battering against it from the outside. She frowns at the sight, the sky an overcast darkness that gives her little hope for tomorrow’s weather, and takes a few steps towards the window. The walk across campus, to her personal skycar, will be unpleasant. She shivers at the thought and lowers the book from her chest, letting it hang loosely by her side.

She taps it against her thigh and feels an echo of another shiver against her spine, something that has nothing to do with the bleak landscape and entirely to do with Dr. T’Soni’s paranoia. She is being watched. Instantly, she turns her head to the left, and is not at all surprised to find Jane loitering in the otherwise empty aisle.

Liara turns her body towards her, and while Jane appears unaffected, staring between the shelves and picking at books as though she has any real interest in them, Liara spies her smile. It is a little smug and far too excited, and Liara’s blood rushes to her head at the sight. With another quick glance around her, she steps into the aisle.

The book she has carried with her is heavy in her hand. She steps up beside Jane and looks for a gap in a shelf, then carefully slides the book in. It is entirely out of place, and Jane notices, even lets out a quiet snort of laughter as she acknowledges Dr. T’Soni’s disguise. She turns her body towards Liara and crosses her arms across her chest, leaning a hip into the shelf.

It is Liara’s turn, now, to feign interest in the books before her.

“You took your time,” Shepard says, her voice low and close enough to wind something warm and tight around Liara’s stomach. “I didn’t think you’d actually come.”

“You’d rather I didn’t?”

“I didn’t say that…”

Liara turns her head just enough to see Shepard, her gaze falling to the tempting smile on her lips, and then hastily returns her attention to the bookshelf. She picks a title at random, sliding it slowly out of place, and examines the cover. Her eyes buzz restlessly over the text, taking in nothing other than the lacklustre illustration on the cover. She can feel her heartbeat in her throat, tight like four fingers and a thumb.

“Honestly,” she says, and blushes deeper still when her voice comes out as nothing more than a whisper, “I don’t know why I did.”

Beside her, Jane shifts. Liara dare not actually face her, but from the corner of her peripheral she sees Jane's muscular legs unfold at the ankle, leaning less of her weight against the shelves. It brings her a fraction closer to Liara, and then an arm snakes out of the hold she’s kept them in against her chest, a hand rising up to the book in her hands, not quite touching her but close enough for Liara to feel the warmth on her fingers.

Shepard pushes gently, guiding the book up, and Liara dutifully slides it home.

“I think you know exactly why you came.”

Liara’s hands tremble as she draws them away, her voice weak, near pleading, “Jane…”

“Our conversation the other day,” Shepard begins suddenly, throwing Liara off enough to return a semblance of steadiness to the situation, “you told me that the entire mistake down in those ruins didn’t put you off archaeology.” She pauses, giving Liara a chance to correct her, but she does not. “You said you’d had no trouble – nothing that dangerous, at least – happen to you before.” Again, another pause. Liara waits to see where Shepard is going with this topic; her heartbeat does not slow down. “And yet as soon as you were rescued, you left the field of work that you’re most passionate about – your life’s _great love affair_.”

Liara blushes deeply at the sound of her own words repeated back at her. Goddess, what had Shepard thought of her then…? What does she think of her now?

“You didn’t leave because you were scared out of your wits,” Shepard continues, levelling Liara with a look that she cannot help but return. “You left because you were scared out of your wits, and _you enjoyed it_.”

Every muscle in Liara’s body tenses.

She is as good as any other statue in this library, except her heart is neither rock nor stone, but a pulsing, squeezing mass of fear inside of her chest. The rate at which blood is pumping through her body sends her dizzy, breathless. She reaches a hand out for the bookshelf and grips to keep herself upright – to keep herself from bolting back to her desk, or just out the front door. She quickly evades direct eye-contact.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” Shepard presses, so gently that Liara cannot think her unkind, even as her cheeks turn navy blue. “You had your first real taste of danger, and you wanted more.”

Liara shudders and does not answer. At this point, she does not think she needs to.

“Tell me I’m wrong.”

“Jane.” She looks towards her, finally, near-beseechingly, and Shepard must take pity on her, she thinks, but not nearly enough.

“There’s something between us,” Shepard says, her gaze an unwavering kind of calm, a solidity that Liara envies right now. “Something… a little _dangerous_. You can’t deny that.”

A deep breath – Liara steels herself.

“I’m not denying it,” she says, slowing her words down in the hopes that she might fake calmness. “I’m simply saying that it shouldn’t _be there_.”

“Mm.” Shepard considers this, and Liara turns her body towards her, finally, leaning into the shelves for support. “I don’t think that that’s something you can wish away.”

 _And damn her_ , Liara thinks, _but she’s right_.

She lets her gaze waver from Shepard’s intense eyes, down the neck that is almost delicate in how slender it is, to the broad shoulders and the arms that have plagued her daydreams since Liara first set sight on her, stumbling into her seminar room late all those weeks ago. She wonders just how strong they are, how pliant they would be beneath her fingers.

Her breathing slows down to regular, quiet puffs. The saliva in her mouth feels too thick; she swallows and then swallows again. She has, in the space of a few seconds, a startling epiphany. By the end of this encounter Liara will have kissed her or rejected her, and the idea of either outcome fills her with a kind of terror that she just _should not_ be experiencing. Still, she clings to the certainty of these outcomes, and attempts to prepare.

Having apparently indulged in Liara’s slow once-over for as long as she can, Shepard begins shifting again. Liara’s eyes dart back to her face, to the look of intent there as Shepard pushes her hip away from the shelves and moves slowly, almost felinely, towards her. The gesture is predatory enough for Liara’s instincts to kick in, to draw her body around so that she never once has her back to Shepard. Instead, it presses back against the shelves while Shepard moves in, standing but a hairsbreadth in front of her.

“I won’t lie,” she says, and Liara feels her breath against her lips, “hell, I don’t think I can. I’m interested in you.”

Liara’s hands slip back towards the shelves, finding the cold, solid metal and wrapping her fingers against it to keep her from reaching out. (They say humans have a slightly higher body temperature than asari, and Liara is willing to believe it, with the heat radiating between them, but still – to reach out, to feel for herself, to run her palms along warm, muscular skin… She grips the shelf all the tighter.)

“I’m—not very interesting,” she promises, breath shuddering past her parted lips.

Shepard’s own quirk up into an easy smile. “With all due respect, Professor, I disagree.”

She seems to consider Liara after that, her eyes darting about her face as though any sudden twitch of a muscle will determine the answer she is seeking. Liara wonders what she is looking for, nearly holds her breath as she waits, until Shepard’s eyes catch unmistakably on her mouth. Without thought, she licks her lips, and Shepard has her answer. She steps in slowly, at first, her hands on Liara’s hips before their thighs are pressing together, pushing Liara back not uncomfortably against the shelves.

“You—” she is breathless, suddenly, “must have been to many… interesting places?”

Shepard hums a noncommittal reply.

“Met… ah,” their hips meet next, the tensing lower half of their stomachs, “many interesting people.”

“Oh, yeah,” Shepard smiles, and Liara loses her resolve.

She lifts her hands to Shepard’s wrist, her fingers tense but not harsh. She should push her away. She will push her away. Except, she doesn’t. She trails her fingers slowly up the length of Shepard’s covered arms, her face turning slowly darker with her flush. When she reaches past the elbow, her eyes glued to her own progress, Shepard flexes beneath her jacket and Liara almost swoons. She applies more pressure, testing the muscles that she’s feeling, wishing desperately that Shepard’s jacket wasn’t in the way of her careful examination.

Finally, she reaches her shoulders, and her thumbs dip briefly and not even completely into Shepard’s armpit. Instantly, the woman freezes, sucks in a breath, and Liara’s stomach drops. Her gaze skirts back to Shepard’s, but instead of the rejection that Liara is anticipating, there is vague embarrassment on her face.

Shepard’s cheeks turn that pretty human pink and Liara has to fight with herself to keep from kissing them.

“You’re ticklish,” she says, and is at once surprised with her own wonderful discovery.

Shepard’s blush darkens.

“No,” her voice tight, but amused, still even a little bashful (Liara doesn’t think she has ever felt luckier than in this moment), “maybe? A _little_.”

Liara thinks the moment has passed – thinks they will laugh, now, and see this entire situation as ridiculous. She will go back to her abandoned work, and Shepard will likely drive home through the rain. Instead, the steady presence of Shepard’s body remains, hot and solid against her. Every breath Liara takes fills her lungs, pushes her stomach out, and joins another part of their bodies together. Every exhale is a reluctant parting.

Shepard wonders if Liara’s heart is beating as quickly as her own.

Then, she presses closer still and confirms it.

Liara’s heart is kick-drum hard against her breasts, and Shepard’s eyes briefly close, an exhale like a quiet token of gratitude slipping past her lips. Still, nervousness assaults her anew. She opens her eyes, lifts her gaze to Liara’s face, and stops herself from closing the distance like she so badly wants to. Her fingers tense at Liara’s hips, thumbs working into the slight inner-dip, rubbing circles through the floor-length skirt.

“If this is,” she starts, loses her breath, and has to begin again, blinking and determined. “If _I_ am… making you uncomfortable, I can—”

In a moment of blind panic, Liara does not let her finish. She presses forward and closes the distance herself.

Shepard’s words turn to a dull hum against Liara’s soft lips, muffled and swallowed, and then a louder noise escapes her, something like a sigh and a moan, and Shepard presses Liara further into the bookshelves, grasping desperately at her hips. Her heart is pounding, adrenaline is coursing through her veins, excitement and fear a palpable, overwhelming thrum; for the first time since leaving the Alliance, Shepard feels _at home_.

Liara’s hands finish the remainder of their journey, one sliding up to rest against Shepard’s cheek, and the other behind her neck, gaining confidence with every second as she plunges her fingers up into soft, red hair. The unfamiliar texture sends a pleasant shiver through her, and Shepard sighs against her mouth, savouring the sensation. Jane’s hair is as she had hoped, thick and smooth, and Liara cannot help herself – cannot stop herself from indulging in every inappropriate fantasy she’s ever had.

She wraps her fingers around a handful of hair and she _pulls_.

Shepard’s head slips comfortably back from Liara’s mouth, her lips parting at the pleasant and altogether unexpected gesture; she lets out a moan that is too loud and so surprising that they both blush deeply at the sound. Almost instantly, Liara releases her grip. She panics, thinks she might have hurt Jane (that had not been a pained moan), thinks she can never do this again (she _wants to do it again_ ), and carefully eases her fingers out of the hair she has tangled into a mild state of disarray.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, and Jane slowly tilts her head down to grin at her.

Neither make a move to put any space between them.

Liara can still feel her body shuddering, pulsing with every beat of her over-taxed heart, and is thankful for both the bookshelf and Shepard’s body on either side of her, keeping her supported and upright. She takes a few deep breaths and waits for the tingling in her legs to recede.

Finally, once she seems to have caught her breath, Shepard leans in to press a quick, chaste kiss against Liara lips and says, “Don’t be.”

Liara is almost embarrassed by how soon after the kiss she licks her lips, dragging her swollen bottom one into her mouth as though she can suck the kiss from it, swallow it down. She regards Shepard with hooded eyes, and Shepard does not shy away from her gaze; blue meets green like their respective home planets.

“Jane.” She settles her hands on Shepard’s shoulders; she is the first to break their gaze. “I…”

As though expecting this, Jane nods her head, and the sudden coolness of her departing body shocks Liara into reaching out to her, into stalling her retreat (into making, arguably, the biggest mistake of her entire career – and there have been many, she is willing to admit).

“Jane,” she says, stronger now, without so much as a waver in her voice. She takes Shepard’s hands in hers, squeezes them gently, and it is not a promise – it is not even a _maybe_ – but Shepard appears to understand, anyway. Slowly, she lets their hands part, and Shepard takes a remaining step back.

When she is sure that she can take a step without her legs buckling beneath her, Liara presses away from the bookshelves. A few texts give a noncommittal shake but otherwise remain undisturbed. She brushes her fingers down her shirt, easing away the rumples where Shepard’s body ( _Goddess, Shepard’s body!_ ) had been pressed against hers, and then looks up to find that the human herself has strayed no further than a few backwards steps.

When Liara meets her gaze, Shepard hesitates.

“Ah, so…” She rubs one hand against her forehead. “That was… okay?”

“Not in the slightest.” Liara lets out an amused, albeit accepting breath. “But…”

Shepard hangs all of her hopes on that one word and prays it doesn’t buckle with the weight.

“But,” she repeats, “you want to do it again.”

Liara does not have the shame to deny it.

“So,” Shepard continues, stepping forward but keeping still a body’s space of distance between them, “we can do it again?”

Her voice lilts up with so much hope that Liara’s heart aches. _Yes_ , she screams at herself. _Yes, you wonderful woman, we can do this again, we can do this every day for the foreseeable future, if you like, just warn me now so that I can free up my schedule, indefinitely…_  She blinks. She takes a deep breath, and then she eases past Shepard.

She cannot give an answer, but she can infer one. She thinks that will have to be enough.

“Goodbye, Jane,” she says, her words loaded with more than just the timid smile on her face, and then she leaves.

Shepard stands alone in the aisle and grins as though she has any right to.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slight delay in this chapter! I’ve been caught up on a lot of reading, and writing began to get a little frustrating so I scrapped a lot and restarted. I’m so, so overwhelmed by the response to this fic, though. It started out as something silly to keep me entertained (it still is that, I suppose), and I never expected it would have much of a following. Thank you all, I’m very grateful for all your kudos and comments. 
> 
> (Also, you’re all reading Melds and Matter Manipulations by MargravineB, right? Superb fantasy take on Mass Effect! I’m loving it so far.)

Shepard is running.

A sense of urgency forces one foot in front of the other, fighting off the drag that pulls at her legs, making them heavier with each passing second. She forces herself on. She _needs_ to move. She feels around her own hazy self-consciousness for a sense of panic, a reason for the running, a problem that she must face or flee, but this is not her fight or flight instinct taking over. This is something else altogether.

Shepard is _late_.

The thought fills her with dread, thick in her mouth like her tongue has swollen to twice its size. Turning one corner, she finds the corridor has been blocked off by an immovable pile of desks and chairs. She flees through a nearby door, instead, and scales a staircase two steps at a time. The further up she travels, the stairs begin to groan and shift; each step becomes steeper than the last, until Shepard is having to climb up them, hauling her upper-body onto the next ledge and fighting to help her second half find purchase.

And then, when the second floor comes into view, the stairs right themselves again as though there was never a problem with them to begin with.

Shepard does not question it; she runs until she is skidding down corridors that she does not recognise, but instinctively knows which subjects they belong to. The university is a maze of overly-complicated twists and turns, and Shepard weathers them like she does any challenge; masterfully, and with only a hint of frustration.

When she reaches the door to the next staircase, having successfully navigated around the blocked off corridor below her, she finds the stairs have been replaced by one long, sliding floor. She does not hesitate, but rather throws herself down it until her only care is the force at which she is going to collide with the oncoming wall.

She braces herself, closes her eyes, and balls herself up to lessen the impact.

The impact… which does not arrive.

Shepard opens her eyes again, and she is standing beside the sloping floor, unharmed. She _does not question it_. She runs quicker through the doors.

Finally, after a brief lapse in which Shepard forgets entirely where she is supposed to be going, she reaches her destination. The history seminar room is loud with voices, and already her stomach drops at the prospect of being late again. Whatever worry she has of humiliation is quickly and overwhelmingly overthrown by her urgency to _be inside that room_. She smacks a palm down on the sensor, and the metallic doors hiss open.

When she enters, the air shifts.

Shepard feels time slow down, feels its drag against her skin as she wades through suddenly visible dust particles and towards her desk. The sound of chatter quiets down, the pleasant drone of her professor’s voice stretches out like a strung note, and then quiets. Shepard takes her seat, and time resumes itself in a flash. She pulls up her bag. She looks straight ahead.

She sees, with no more confusion than horror, the sight of the professor in front of her.

It speaks clearly in a cool, steady voice that Shepard not only recognises, but enjoys, its back to her and the rest of the class as it continues to write down a sentence in its similarly stolen handwriting. Shepard freezes in fear. She reaches for the pistol in her belt, but comes up empty. She turns around her for help, to bark an order, perhaps, and finds that the students she typically shares her history class with have disappeared.

She is alone and unarmed.

She turns back in her seat.

The bulbous head turns slowly, regards her through one unblinking glare of the flashlight lens.

Its sweet, crisp voice buzzes with a crackling, metallic interface.

“Shepard Commander, have you finished your paper?”

Shepard _screams_.

 

It’s a long weekend for Shepard, but it is not her first.

By the time Monday morning rolls around, Shepard slips out of bed ten minutes before her alarm. She skips to her modest en suite bathroom as well as she can with a crutch in one hand and her prosthetic on the other side of the room. She is positively _gleeful_ , singing while she cleans her hair and then well into her morning routine.

With the speed at which she’d gotten ready, she has time enough to make eggs for breakfast, and even plates up a second portion when Jack appears, watching her strangely, to take a seat at the breakfast bar.

“Good morning,” Jack says, drawing the greeting out with enough snark to make her amusement more than just a _little_ teasing.

“Yes it is,” Shepard grins back, because not even Jack can ruin her day. She sets their plates down at the breakfast bar and sidles up next to Jack, passing her a glass of orange juice, no less. “You’re welcome.” Jack’s close scrutiny lasts a few seconds longer, and then she breaks out into a wide grin.

“Shit, Shepard, you took my anxiety meds, didn’t you?”

“Nope.”

“You didn’t?” Her face falls. “I left them right outside your door.”

“Yeah, I got ‘em, Jack. Thanks?”

“No worries… The condoms?” Shepard lets out a sigh but refuses to answers. She shoves a forkful of eggs into her mouth and frowns at Jack – who shamelessly holds her gaze. She tilts her head to one side, and the smile creeps back onto her lips. “You found some use for them, after all, huh?”

Shepard swallows and rolls her eyes.

“No, I didn’t. But again,” her nose scrunches at the tip, "thank you?"

Jack’s eyes narrow in what could be frustration, could simply be annoyance at not working Shepard out as easily as she’d have liked to have done. She chews slowly, thoughtfully, holding her fork a couple of inches above her plate as she watches Shepard make quick work of her breakfast. Finally, she swallows and releases Shepard from her gaze. The volume with which she scrapes her fork against the plate suggests she’s no closer to working out a reason for her flatmate’s sunny disposition. They eat in companionable silence for maybe five more minutes, and then Shepard is slipping back out of her seat.

“There’s somethin’ you’re not telling me, Shep,” Jack calls after her, and Shepard grins as she rinses her plate. “If you didn’t just get laid, you’re about to.” She sets her fork down on her empty plate, leaning precariously forward on the edge of her stool. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

Shepard dances around her on her way back to her bedroom.

“Tell me I’m right?”

Shepard laughs like Jack has never heard her laugh before, and it only serves to make her more frustrated.

“Shepard,” she shouts after her, and then tenses in sudden remembrance. “Where the fuck did you put my pills, then?”

 

Shepard’s good mood follows her to university, and why shouldn’t it, when the sole reason for her smile is most likely already there, tucked inside her office, gathering the necessary datapads for her upcoming seminar…? Excitement sits like a ball of biotic blue energy inside of Shepard’s stomach, thrumming and humming, sending the occasional jolt through her nervous system.

She’d contemplated contacting Dr. T’Soni over the weekend, had even scrolled through the messages on her omni-tool to track down the address used when her professor had forwarded along her lesson notes after their very first seminar together. The message had come with a quickly typed subject and nothing more. Shepard had opened a window to reply, and then realised that she would be sending her professor inappropriate messages through her professional address. If the university could trace its professors’ work-related emails…

She had quickly reconsidered, is the point, and the anticipation of finally seeing her again after zero contact with Dr. T’Soni only fuels Shepard’s eagerness to be back under her nose, so to speak.

With a thought to her already jolting heart, and perhaps a little wishful thinking, Shepard foregoes her morning wait in line at the usual coffee shop, and heads straight to her seminar room. She’s almost fifteen minutes early, but there are already a few more eager students lingering in the corridor, and more still passing through to get to their morning classes. Shepard picks a place against a wall and leans with her back against it, her backpack clenched between her partially parted feet.

She’s left alone to her thoughts, for the most part.

Shepard casts a daunting figure wherever she goes, but her time spent in such close proximity among other students has chipped away at her image as an unapproachable, intimidating ex-soldier. She’d always expected her reputation to follow her, and had made the most of the peace it typically brought her. She’d made the mistake, once and once only, of venturing through the campus’ student union bars, and barely escaped again before a fleet of intoxicated students had promised her a crew and a ship and a future in piracy.

Somewhere on the other side of campus, a band of krogans are still chanting her name.

She lets the thought entertain her for a moment longer, but it’s ultimately washed away again in apprehension. There’s no shortage of people in this galaxy whose life Shepard has made very difficult. Attending university was always going to be a risk; she’s vulnerable without a gun, but no less formidable. She likes to think her reputation has gone far enough to keep a group of retaliators from targeting a school.

(Deep down, she knows the threat of innocent bystanders means nothing. Shepard has seen the ugly face of this galaxy; leaving the Alliance took the spotlight off her, but she is by no means off the radar.)

Her paranoid train of thought has her sweeping a glance around the corridor, to the students waiting with her, the students whose proximity she now shares for nearly five days of the week, in some cases. Her eyes linger at one end of the corridor, and so lost in her own thoughts is she that she does not at first recognise the _click, click, clicking_ of a very familiar pair of heels.

It’s not the heels, per se, but the gait at which they’re carried – smooth, steady, like flowing water. Utterly determined to carry their owner to her destination regardless of what stands in their way. Shepard’s spine straightens; she tries not to turn too quickly towards the sound, and arguably fails. Green eyes meet blue, the rhythm of the clicking falters, a brief hesitation that Dr. T’Soni makes up for with a small, surreptitious smile before disengaging their visual contact.

Shepard follows her wordlessly into the seminar room.

 

It is not, by any means, the most painful lesson in patience that Shepard has ever been forced to learn.

Still, it comes pretty fucking close.

The last unidentifiable, unapologetically ignored set of footsteps finally vacates the room, and Shepard slips out of her seat before the door has a chance to hiss as it closes, determining no further impeding presence. At her desk, Dr. T’Soni continues to pack away her lesson items as though she cannot sense the shift in the air, but that smile – oh, Shepard is too cruel to not draw attention to it.

“It gives you away, you know?”

Blue eyes flicker up to hers, then back down to the datapad in Dr. T’Soni’s hands. “What does?”

“Your smile.”

Shepard steps around the desk, invading the invisible line drawn by Dr. T’Soni’s title; Shepard skips past _appropriate_ with barely a backwards glance. Liara terminates the live, holographic feed from her datapad to the projection on the blank wall behind her desk, and then tucks it safely within her bag. She folds her empty hands together to mitigate the urge to fidget when she meets Jane’s gaze.

“And what does it give away?” she asks, bluffing at confidence that she does not feel.

“A lot of things,” Shepard says, and leans a hip into the desk. Dr. T’Soni’s eyes narrow at the intrusion, but true to their nature, her lips flicker up. “See, like right there,” Shepard helpfully points out. “You want to tell me to stop here, don’t you?” And she pushes away from the desk, taking a slow, pointed step closer into territory that has Liara’s spine uncomfortably straightening. “But that smile says otherwise.”

“Jane…” Her eyes dart to the window, peering out at the corridor to the bodies that pass by too quickly to pay any real attention to what is going on inside. Her heart thunders in her chest. “Perhaps I’m simply being polite,” she offers, instead, voice too breathless to carry any weight.

“Yeah, and perhaps you’re simply enjoying yourself.”

Liara lets out an amused breath and wonders if this – the pulsating, throbbing way her heart bruises her chest – is _enjoyment_. Still, they are too exposed, and Liara is too cautious – is downright too determined – to lose her job over the petty spreading of a rumour that is, she hates to admit, entirely true. She will not be driven from her career by scandal.

“It says other things,” Shepard tells her before Dr. T’Soni can end the conversation, and the way that her voice drops, smooth and quiet, like velvet and dark chocolate and red wine (and soft, warm lips), has her turning back to meet Jane’s eyes with unbridled interest.

“Yes…?”

Shepard’s own lips flutter, now, while Liara’s have utterly lost their smile, and part with a small pop at Shepard’s next words.

“It says you want me to kiss you. Or that _you_ want to kiss _me_... again.” A strangled response waits somewhere deep down in Dr. T’Soni’s throat, but Shepard doesn’t give her the time to fish it out. She casts a glance around as though just remembering where they are, in almost full display of the broad window that overlooks the corridor. “But not here.”

“Oh, no?” It comes out breathless but without a hint of denial.

“No,” Shepard grins, and takes a step back towards an appropriate distance. Liara breathes again. “Take me to your office.”

Dr. Liara T’Soni does not follow orders. It is within her very nature to question, to defy, to set her own course and follow it determinedly, if painfully, until she has found either what she was looking for, or a new lead. Liara _investigates_ , Liara _digs_ , Liara does not wilfully surrender to an instruction before determining that it will favour her cause, and yet…

She slips her handbag onto her shoulder. She steps, dry-mouthed, past Jane Shepard and out of the seminar room’s door. She does not have to look behind her to ensure that she is being followed; Jane makes her presence known whether she wants to or not, in this case with the heavy-booted footsteps that trail at an appropriate distance between Liara’s own.

When she reaches her office, Liara unlocks the door and steps aside to allow Jane first entry, as though welcoming a guest into her home.

Shepard does not hesitate. She steps into the centre of the spacious, yet cramped room and takes in her surroundings. The first thing she notices are the bookshelves, floor-to-ceiling in length and crammed with books at all angles. The window is large behind a couple of armchairs, overlooking a brief stretch of greenery between the campus’ neighbouring university buildings. There are plants with strange flowers covering the surface of the windowsill, and more still behind Dr. T’Soni’s desk, barely noticed when Jane turns around to finally meet her professor’s gaze.

Having set her bag down on her desk chair, Liara turns and watches as Shepard inspects her room. It could be tidier. Her own eyes flit over piles of books she has yet to return to her bookshelf, and the old coffee mug that has been sitting, empty at her desk, since the week before. She bites guiltily at her bottom lip, and when she next looks up, Shepard is watching her.

All at once, the air tightens into a strip of energy so visceral that Liara swears she could see it, if she were focused enough. It draws a line between them, an A to Z that tightens like elastic forced too thin, and slowly draws Jane in on unhurried, purposeful steps. She stops just in front of Liara, an inch or two taller, her features softening as she leans into the remaining distance between their lips.

At the last minute, Shepard changes her mind, or perhaps that’s simply what she wants Liara to think. It is not her lips that she meets with a kiss so soft that Liara sighs in response, but the column of her throat, where Jane’s mouth drags across her skin with barely a whisper of the strength of presence that they both are craving.

Liara lifts her head at an angle, permitting the slow, barely-there teasing, and slips her hands into the ends of Shepard’s t-shirt, left visible through her open jacket. Shepard’s breath comes in slow, controlled bursts of hot air; when she darts her tongue out, applies just the tip of it to an otherwise chaste kiss, her breath coldly pinches the damp mark and makes her body shiver.

Liara blinks up at the ceiling and begs the Goddess for guidance.

Her response comes in the form of two sharp rows of teeth against the underside of her jaw; a brief pinch, and then Shepard soothes the mark with her tongue, that same feather-light presence until she gives into self-indulgence and sucks the tingling skin into her mouth. Liara gasps against a sudden onslaught of unexpected arousal; her hands twist desperately in Shepard’s t-shirt, an unfamiliar, high-pitched noise escaping her throat, and then a chilling moment when Liara feels herself relinquishing control to her own carnal instincts.

It begins with a flutter of the mind, a small release as barriers give way and she reaches out to the closest, warmest place to touch.

And then Liara realises what she is doing.

Her eyes widen in horror, she draws herself back, draws herself in, and is not careful when she twists in Shepard’s hold and steps shakily towards her desk. Shepard makes a confused, near-apologetic noise behind her, but Liara cannot focus past her own heartbeat drumming past her ears. She presses a hand to her chest as though to calm her heart, and the other against her lips, untouched and yet still trembling.

_Goddess, I almost…_

She lets out a shuddering breath and closes her eyes again, willing the arousal away.

Behind her, shifting footsteps. “Liara…?”

“I’m—” She stops and takes a deep breath in, lets it out slowly through her teeth, and tries to quell the tremble that has taken a hold of her voice. She thinks she can do it, if she whispers. “I’m fine.”

There’s a tense pause behind her, Shepard radiating uncertainty well enough that Liara does not have to reach out to her with her mind in order to feel it. She takes another deep breath in and slowly turns around. It takes her a few more seconds, desperately grappling with her own limited source of courage, before she meets Jane’s eyes. The second she does, Shepard blinks in surprise.

“Oh, you’re… your eyes are…” Shepard steps in closer to see the smoky tendrils that still linger in the corners of Liara’s eyes. Liara’s cheeks burn with her blush. “Is that…?”

“Yes,” Liara answers, before either of them can utter the word, and Jane’s lips quirk upwards again. Liara’s blush deepens; she forces out a sigh and tries to look away, but Shepard moves in closer, stealing her attention again. “It’s… I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologise,” Shepard tells her, her own eyes flitting between both of Liara’s, watching the way the darkness reaches like long, black hairs for Liara’s irises. Uneasy with the close scrutiny, Liara lowers her gaze, and Shepard finally takes pity on her embarrassment. “Though… I would be a little miffed, too, if my body made it so obvious when I was horny.”

“ _Jane_.” She twists her hands together. "I... briefly lost control, is all."

Her eyes shoot back to Shepard’s, bursting with accusation and something else. Shepard lets out a laugh at the sight, and Liara hates that she can’t help but join in – hates it. Once she has laughed her way through her nerves, she clamps down on her bottom lip and sighs with barely concealed affection across at Jane.

Sensing that they are back on level ground, Shepard grins and sweeps her gaze around the room again. She turns curiously towards the bookshelves, allowing the moment to slip from them, but it is not forgotten. Behind her, Liara shifts gratefully, but no closer towards her. She hears the sound of moving items and turns briefly over one shoulder to see Liara tidying away her desk space. Shepard returns to the bookshelf with a smile.

Her eyes graze over the titles, the majority written in Liara’s native tongue, and a few more in letters that Shepard wants to attribute to other languages. Her eyes finally settle on a title that stands out among the cramped many; she slips it from its spot and the books on either side fall together, effectively and almost completely closing the space it had left.

Confirming her suspicions, Shepard opens to a page at random and skims over the first paragraph.

“I didn’t know you could read English,” she says, turning back to Liara only upon hearing her reply.

“Then there’s a lot you have yet to learn about me,” Liara says, stepping up beside her with a handful of books. She smirks when she notices Jane’s look of surprise. Turning back to the bookshelf, she begins to look for places where she can squeeze in the books in her hands, while Shepard’s attention returns to the text she still holds. Finally, she confesses, “I’m still learning, actually, but I think I understand the basic grammatical rules.”

“How long have you been studying?”

“Hm…” she slips a book into place, and taps her fingers against another in thought, “several weeks now, at least.”

Shepard looks up in interest. “You’ve learned the basic grammatical rules of an alien language in just a few weeks?”

“ _Several_ weeks,” Liara corrects her, and returns to the task at hand.

Shepard, however, does not shake her surprise so easily. When she remembers the book in her hands, she too begins looking for a space to fit it. She cannot read the titles on the shelves, does not know if Liara has organised her books in a particular order, but the way in which she looks for a shred of space in any nook or cranny she can find dispels Shepard’s concerns. She slips the book horizontally between the space of a few shorter books and the underside of a shelf, then steps back.

“That’s pretty dry reading material to learn from,” she says, nodding towards the book she’s just put away when Liara turns to her. “I could find you something much more interesting.”

Liara smiles as she finishes her task, slipping away the last book, where it bulges in an already-full row with the threat of being spat back out again. “I have no doubt that you would find me something _very interesting_ ,” she says, with too much emphasis for either of them to ignore her meaning. “Whether or not it would be appropriate, however…”

“Oh, T’Soni, you know me so well already.”

“I like to think so,” Liara hums, and Shepard laughs quietly.

“Yeah?” she prods. “Then tell me what I’m thinking right now.”

“Hm…” Liara steps forward, narrowing her eyes and bringing the tips of her fingers to Jane’s jaw. She tilts her head upwards, this way and then that, as though each and every thought is written as plain as day on her face.

“Huh, all those rumours about asari mind-readers are just that, right?” Shepard asks, looking down past her nose into Liara’s face when her head is gently tilted back. “Right…?” Liara’s lips quirk again. Slowly, she releases Shepard’s jaw, letting her orient her head into a more comfortable position. Shepard narrows her eyes in amusement. “Are you giving up?”

“Oh, no,” Liara promises, even as she takes a step back and towards the door. She stops, turns until she is facing Jane, and then bites down on her bottom lip as though considering whether or not she should do something. Shepard holds her breath in anticipation. “Your thoughts are not as well guarded as you like to think, _Shepard_.”

“Really?” Shepard asks, smirking, and Liara shakes her head.

She raises a hand to the wall beside the door, her eyes following the movement, until her fingers linger over a small, square control panel. She swallows audibly and slowly lets her fingers glide over the touchscreen. A second later, the metallic doors click to signal a successful lock.

When Liara next meets her gaze, Shepard’s mouth goes dry.

“Come here.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick and very self-indulgent update because my day has been empty. (y)
> 
> Also, a quick note, because I’m uncertain whether or not I’ve made it clear: this chapter does not follow on directly from the previous one.

“This is, mm… hardly a productive use of our time…”

“No…?”

“Ah… uh? Oh, no…”

“Really?”

“Jane, please…”

“You want me to stop?”

“I… _ah_ …”

“Oh, that?”

“ _Yes_.”

“Right there?”

“Goddess, yes…”

“Your eyes are doing that thing again.”

“You can’t… ah, you can’t see them.”

“I can feel it.”

A sigh. “Please, stop talking…”

Jane presses her face back into a warm neck and laughs, dragging her lips down the column of Liara’s throat to the space where neck meets shoulder. She presses a kiss to the skin there, and Liara marvels at how gentle Shepard can be with her teeth. She weaves a hand through red hair, holding her in place, and leans further back into the desk digging into her upper thighs.

“We can’t keep hiding back here like this,” Liara hums, her other hand massaging Shepard’s shoulder (two hands squeeze firmly against her hips in response). “We’re being far too obvious.”

“You worry too much.”

“That,” Liara groans when Shepard’s lips slip to her collarbone, being careful only when it comes to not leaving a visible mark, “is not entirely true. I don’t worry enough. If I did,” and she slips her hand out of Shepard’s hair, moving both to her shoulders so that she can ease Shepard back, “I wouldn’t be doing this at all.”

Shepard relents, lifting her face to Liara’s so that the other woman can claim her mouth for her own. They kiss slowly, neither in much of a rush to progress any further from enjoying the other’s closeness. Liara’s hands make a lazy round of her arm muscles, her fingers slipping almost as low as Shepard’s elbows before crawling back up to her shoulders, and then back again. She wishes the weather were still bordering on warm so that she could feel the full strength of Shepard’s muscles in a tank top instead of through the jumper that she’s wearing, but she makes do.

Oh, she makes do…

Shepard herself takes full advantage of the position, her hands patiently moving between supple hips and a warm back.

Liara is all softness and curves, a luxury that active duty has robbed from Shepard’s body, and not one she thought she would ever miss. And she doesn’t, really, but rather has a new appreciation for it. Her own body is solid in places, scarred and reconstructed and war-hardened. She has her soft breasts and her slender neck, the hands that stopped growing after she turned fifteen. Her figure is recognisably feminine, broad hips complimented by her broad shoulders, but _Liara_.

Shepard wonders, if she were to slip her hands beneath the hem of her pristine shirt, would she find a toned stomach beneath, or something soft and pliable… something she could take between her teeth?

And her _breasts_ …

Unable to help herself, Shepard eases closer until they’re standing chest to chest, and Liara releases a shuddering breath against her mouth. Shepard grins in response and pecks her lips. She links her hands together behind Liara’s back, easing away far enough to be able to properly see into Liara’s face without sacrificing any contact between their bodies.

“You’re looking very pleased with yourself,” Liara says in response to Shepard’s smug smile.

“I’m _feeling_ very pleased with myself,” Shepard agrees, and her smile widens. Liara laughs and shakes her head. “So, what were you saying…?”

“Hm? Oh…” Liara blinks. She actually has to think about it. Shepard laughs again at the look on her face, and Liara narrows her eyes in retaliation. “Whatever it was, it was probably very important.”

“No doubt.”

“You mock me, Jane Shepard, but you forget who grades your papers…”

“Oh, that is a gross abuse of power.”

Liara splutters. “Yes, and we both know a lot about that, don’t we?”

She grows quiet at the question, and as rhetorical as it was, Shepard still feels the need to respond. She lays her palms flat against the small of Liara’s back and gently rubs her hands in wide circles, up and then back down again. Liara eases into the contact, and therefore further into the desk; it gives Shepard an idea, but not one she’ll be executing any time soon, if ever.

“We haven’t really spoken about this, have we?” she asks, and Liara’s smile gentles.

“For good reason,” she adds, and Shepard nods in agreement.

“I’m under no illusion that you’re taking advantage of me, Liara.”

“That’s exactly what I’m doing, Jane,” Liara sighs. “No matter what you say. I’m your professor and you are my student; no matter how mature or… experienced you are, that is _exactly_ what I am doing.”

Shepard’s hands stop at Liara’s waist, her thumbs creeping around her middle, pressing not uncomfortably just beneath her ribs. “Do you want to stop?” she asks, and just about manages to get the words out before she realises just how attached she’s grown to Liara, in such a short period. If Liara were to say yes, and her stomach drops at the thought, Shepard is under no illusion that the sudden and complete extraction from whatever relationship they have here will _hurt_. Immeasurably.

(Even with all those years under the Alliance, she still hasn’t learned how to protect herself, has she? Somewhere out there, Joker is burning with the urge to make a sarcastic comment, without knowing why…)

Thankfully, Liara seems just as unsettled by the idea. She frowns, her give-away lips pouting in both thought and dissatisfaction. “No,” she says eventually, though not for having to think too hard about her answer. “I don’t want to stop seeing you, but I know that I should. I know this is incredibly selfish of me… I’m putting you under so much pressure.”

Shepard sways into her, hoping to lighten the mood. “I like it when you put pressure on me.”

It works, in some small way – brings a smile to Liara’s lips and has her eyes closing, as though in fear that if she looks on any longer, Jane’s goofy grin will become contagious. “You’re not helping,” she groans, and Shepard laughs again.

“I really like you,” she says, suddenly, and so seriously that Liara’s eyes quickly open. “Shit, I wish we’d met under different circumstances…”

“Mm, while you were still the great Commander Shepard, perhaps?” Liara asks, but there’s far too much interest in her tone for her to pull off the teasing remark.

Shepard shakes her head.

“No,” she says, surprising Liara with the conviction in her eyes. She looks briefly tormented by the idea, and then lets whatever thoughts she doesn’t wish to share go, unvoiced. “I do like these dynamics, though… the power-imbalance.” She wags her eyebrows and all earlier tension is quickly forgotten. Liara rolls her eyes. “How about if you were my physical therapist, huh…?”

Liara lets out a delicate snort when Shepard winks at her.

“What do you say, Dr. T’Soni? That kinda gets me off, you know?”

“I’m not that kind of doctor, sadly,” Liara smirks. She entertains the idea for a moment longer. “And I don’t imagine you being anything less than a difficult patient.”

“Ooh, now I’m hurt, doctor,” Shepard winces, leaning in closer to murmur: “you better kiss me better.”

“Or else?” Liara grins, but she gives in not a second later, brushing her mouth against Shepard’s. She pulls back with a soft pop of their parting lips. “You’re impossible, Jane.”

“You know, you’re not the first person to say that.”

Liara’s smile widens.

“I can believe that,” she muses, and then a thought occurs. “In all of your travels,” she begins, her head tilting curiously to one side; Shepard nods her own in interest, “did you ever meet many asari?”

Shepard’s lips spread into a wide smile, and Liara’s cheeks deepen in hue with her blush.

“I met a few,” Shepard answers, nodding her head. “Plenty of commandos and mercs… and dancers.”

“Ah.”

“And then there was this pirate queen…”

Liara’s eyes narrow in suspicious. “You’re making that up.”

“Oh,” Shepard laughs, but her expression turns comically grave, “ _I wish_.”

Liara hums thoughtfully. “Then… you have been given quite the impression of my race.”

“Yeah,” Shepard grins, “ _quite_.”

Liara’s stare turns amusedly deadpan.

“What about you?” Shepard asks. “What’s your impression of humanity?”

Liara appears to think about the question for a time. She brings a hand up, brushing back unruly red hair so that she can tap her finger against an ear. “Quite perplexing,” she teases, and Shepard snorts at the perceived irony, “and ultimately… entirely too impatient.”

Shepard blinks. “Impatient?” Then again, the more she thinks about it… she has become entirely too attached to her history professor in barely three months. She’s not exactly a shining example of patience herself. “Okay, that’s easy to say for somebody who’s probably gonna live past a thousand years old.”

Liara’s shoulders shrug delicately, but a realisation dawns on Shepard so quickly that her face falls.

“Uh… by the way, like… how far off is that?” she asks, her interest thankfully too endearing for Liara to take any offence.

“Quite a while, I assure you,” she smirks, and then clears her throat. “I am, actually, only 112.”

Shepard’s eyes bug. “ _Only?_ ”

“You tease, but by asari standards, I’ve practically just come into adulthood.”

There’s no lack of bitterness in her tone – another story – and Shepard rubs her hands along her back once more to draw her away from the mood. Liara squeezes her shoulders in appreciation.

“Well, now I feel a little weird.”

Liara blinks, uncertain. “You do?”

“On the one hand,” Shepard explains, “you’re old enough to be my grandmother. My _great_ grandmother? But on the other, your people still consider you a baby.” Liara bristles at the implication. “You’re not, like, _uncomfortably_ young, are you? This isn’t… inappropriate?”

“Please, Jane,” Liara scoffs, “this is entirely inappropriate, but that has nothing to do with my age. That is the _last thing_ that is wrong with… this. But, if it makes you feel any better to know, the average asari reaches sexual maturity at around the age of forty. My age simply means many of my own people do not take my work seriously. I am still just a maiden; you’ve seen, first hand, how many of us spend our maiden years.”

“ _Mm_ , prejudice,” Shepard sighs, and Liara nods in agreement. “At least that’s not one more obstacle getting in our way, though?”

Liara smiles up at her, slowly, a little sadly. “Do we need any more?” she asks, and Shepard laughs without mirth.

“Good point.”

 

The conversation lingers with Shepard for the remainder of the week, and well into the next.

This is not an ideal relationship, and Shepard doubts it ever will be while both she and Liara are attending the same university. She might find a loophole if she drops Liara’s class, but it’s not at the top of Shepard’s objective, and she’s of the state of mind that a relationship is not worth suffocating her education – not one this young, and certainly not one this fragile.

The alternative is waiting out the year, and if Shepard is given another professor for her second year (which is more than likely to happen, Shepard reasons), then she won’t _technically_ be dating _her_ teacher. But therein that reasoning lies the problem; Shepard isn’t entirely sure that she _is_ dating Liara.

Whatever is between them is entirely forbidden – _this_ she accepts. But past that…?

It’s too early to give it a label, she thinks, and that worries her as well. Each time the topic is churned up in her thoughts, Shepard’s stomach clenches uncomfortably; she knows that she has feelings for Liara, and she knows that breaking off whatever agreement they have between them will do more damage than a charging krogan, but damnit if Shepard is in any position to fix that. It’s a fragile thing, what they have here – a vulnerability that Shepard can neither plan around nor shield herself from.

When it goes tits up, neither of them will be able to dodge the shrapnel.

And that should be an inevitability, shouldn’t it, with the precarious position that they have put themselves in? (But Shepard is a master of avoiding the inevitable, and she’ll be damned if that skill was left behind when she gave up her title.) If their successful relationship depends solely on Shepard’s determination, she’d have no qualms, but it doesn’t – and it never will be that easy.

Still, hanging in this limbo between definitions isn’t helping anything. Shepard will either commit or abandon ship; she’s never been very good at lingering in between. With that in mind, she worries that any push towards any commitment would be the final straw that would make Liara finally see sense. The thought leaves her feeling no better.

After spending much of her time considering her options, Shepard finally settles on an answer.

She can’t do this alone.

If she wants a relationship with Liara, Liara has to want a relationship with her. The longer Shepard thinks about it, the answer becomes more and more obvious, to the point where she’s almost smacking herself about the head for not seeing it sooner. Liara is putting her career on the line for this thing that they have here – she is well aware of the consequences, but she is not well aware of what, exactly, she’s getting _into_.

And that, Shepard muses, is something that she can work with.

 

The set-up is simple.

She waits for a night when Jack is home and in a relatively good mood (Shepard sacrifices several wins in the video game they’re playing in order to ensure it). While Jack’s attention is caught up on the war-torn landscape on the screen, Shepard ducks her avatar into cover and fires a few rounds into one of the enemies lurking too close to her position.

“So… what’re your plans for next weekend?” she asks, keeping her eyes on the screen.

Jack grunts in response.

“Are you staying in?”

“What— _oh_ , you little fucker,” Jack hisses, and Shepard’s gaze flits briefly to her side of the screen to watch her dispose of her enemies with a grenade. The blast echoes around their sound system, and Jack grins with all of her teeth. “How’d you like _that_ , you son of a bitch?” Once she’s in the clear, she spares Shepard a fleeting glance. “Why?”

“Oh, no reason,” Shepard lies, rolling out of her current cover and into a more advantageous position. She takes out several on-screen enemies before saying anything else. “Actually, I was thinking we could have a movie night, you know? Just us girls.”

Jack swears beneath her breath.

“I’ll get some popcorn or something,” Shepard continues, throwing a grenade in the general direction of a cluster of enemies. “What do you think of the _Blasto_ series? I know a guy who can get me the entire collection at a discount. If we start it by Friday evening, I bet we could get through at least half of them. Unless,” she turns her grinning face towards Jack, “you’re up for an all-nighter.”

Jack’s horrified expression shifts between Shepard and the screen. “Uh… shit, I don’t know,” she mumbles, frowning and looking so perturbed that Shepard almost feels horrendously guilty. “Next weekend?”

“That’s right.”

“Fuck.” Jack throws her final two grenades in quick succession, taking out the majority of her computerised enemies. “I’m not one of your girlfriends, Shepard.”

“…what?”

“I’m not— _shit_.” She presses several buttons in quick concession, momentarily forgetting the conversation as she hurries to save her avatar. Within one short moment, Jack fires a round of ammunition into her final enemy and ends the game.

“We’re friends, aren’t we, Jack…?” Shepard pushes, and as she descends into hell many years from now, this incident will be at the very bottom of the list of reasons for her trip.  On the screen, the video game tallies up their totals. Another loss for Shepard. “Jack?”

Jack frowns at her – at the very _nerve_ of her. “Fuck off, Shepard, stop being weird.”

“We don’t have to watch _Blasto_ …” Shepard meekly offers, and Jack groans and rolls her eyes, disconnecting her controller from the game and tossing it back onto the couch as she stands.

“ _God_ , you win.” Shepard blinks in surprise. “Fuck me. The next time you want the place to yourself, just tell me to piss off, alright?”

“Wait,” Shepard huffs, setting her own controller down. Jack stops on the way to the kitchen, pivoting in place and turning only to glare at Shepard expectantly. Jane narrows her eyes. “How long did it take you to figure me out?”

“You’re kidding, right?” Jack crosses her arms against her chest and stands with more weight on her left leg, her body tilting menacingly with the move. She’s all angles and bones, covered in her own mostly self-applied war paint. She’d cast a formidable shadow on the field, Shepard can’t help but think. “You come home every day in a disgustingly good mood. It was only a matter of time before you’d be wanting to bring whatever ass you’re tapping back with you.”

Shepard guffaws, her mouth open and a horrible choking noise coming out. She tries to dig deep for a reply, but fuck, Jack has her.

“It’s not like that,” she tries, and the words sound pathetic even to herself. Jack leers in response. “Okay, it’s kinda like that, but you made it sound so…”

“So you’re not inviting someone back here?”

“I…”

“And you don’t want them in your bed?”

“I mean… that’s probably not even…”

Jack snorts and shakes her head. “Whatever, Shepard,” she mutters, and turns to continue her journey towards the kitchen. “As long as you put those condoms to good use, I don’t give a shit.”

 

 

Unlike the last time Shepard spent any real amount of time here, the library is bustling around her, its cacophonous first floor echoing with both student voices and student footsteps. An elaborately decorative but accurate wall clock presents the time for her – just after lunch – and upon studying it for a moment longer, Shepard concedes that the library likely won’t be emptying again any time soon.

She sits back in her chair with a sigh and returns her gaze to the monitor before her, her fingers tapping idly beside the holographic keyboard. On the screen, a copy of an essay sits, complete but for a second proof-reading. Shepard’s eyes are beginning to strain a little with how long she’s been staring at the text. She turns her gaze, instead, to look one way down the row of computers that she’s sitting at, and then again in the other direction.

She’d been lucky to find a monitor on the first level of the library, and has no intention of giving up her seat when she still has work to do. Still, her eyes itch towards the staircase that she had watched Dr. T’Soni wander up after their discreet divergence from one another upon entering the library. ( _Purely coincidence_ , Liara’s voice says in her mind, and Shepard smiles at the memory.)

Resolute to not relinquish her seat, and having taken Liara’s own concerns (and a few of her own) into consideration, Shepard decides that she won’t go looking for her professor again. There is still, however, a topic of conversation on her mind that she had withheld from the innocent discussion they had shared while walking to the library. It sits heavy with nerves in her stomach now, and stirs up no small trace of excitement.

Lifting her forearm, she activates the messenger on her omni-tool and searches through the alphabetical list of contacts for the private address that Liara had given her almost a week earlier. Liara had blushed at the implication of whatever messages Shepard wanted to send her being inappropriate for her professional address, but had not hesitated to hand it over.

After tapping the contact, a blank window opens and Shepard sends a discreet look around her before beginning her message. She thinks about getting straight to business, and the idea is an alluring one, when the uncertainty of what Liara’s answer will be has her stomach churning in nervousness. This is how she would have handled business back in the Alliance, a direct hit, no time to stall – but Shepard no longer commands a warship, and this is not business, she reminds herself, this is _pleasure_.

Smiling to herself, she disregards the line of text that she has already begun to type and sends instead a meagre: [ _Hey you_.]

She lowers her omni-tool once it has sent, and sits back in her chair, swivelling it from left to right in an almost-semi-circle. Her eyes return fleetingly to the staircase. She imagines, three floors above her, Liara being surprised out of her work by a sudden and intrusive notification from her wrist.

Almost six minutes later, a response comes through. Shepard can practically hear the way Liara’s voice would wrap around the single word reply in that mixture of exasperation and fondness that she is so well acquainted with. { _Jane_.}

Grinning, now, Shepard taps out a reply. [ _I’ve been thinking_ ], it begins, [ _about your concerns regarding how… discreet we’ve been lately._ ]

{ _And…?_ }

[ _And you know how much I enjoy sneaking away to your office, right? Because I enjoy that a lot._ ]

{ _I never would have guessed._ }

[ _But, you’re right. It’s not—what word did you use? Sustainable?_ ]

{ _I don’t believe so, but I know what you mean. You have a suggestion as to how we might move around this?_ }

[ _I do. In fact, my suggestion is that we don’t meet up so regularly on campus anymore._ ]

There is a brief delay before Liara’s response comes through. { _You want to meet elsewhere?_ }

[ _How does that sound?_ ]

{ _I’m… agreeable to the idea. Where did you have in mind?_ }

[ _Well, being in the public eye could still be problematic, so I was thinking my place. More specifically, I was thinking my place next Saturday, if you don’t already have plans?_ ]

There is another delay before Liara’s response arrives, and Shepard spends the time waiting scrolling distractedly through the essay on her screen, barely seeing the words and certainly not making any sense of them. She sucks the soft skin of her inner cheek in between her teeth and bites down. Had the offer come too soon? Is it too presumptuous? Is Liara somewhere above her right now, staring in horror at her omni-tool and thinking that Shepard only wants her for the physical benefits of their relationship?

Shepard wants to hide her face in her hands, and briefly gives into the temptation, rubbing at her eyes with her fingertips. Perhaps she should send a quick message explaining her intentions – the exact _opposite_ of the imagined idea that she has just placed within Liara’s mind. The more she thinks about it, the better the idea sounds, and she lifts her arm to quickly access her omni-tool and type out a quick explanation.

Before she can open a new message window, however, the glowing device pings with a notification and Shepard instantly, and nervously, taps on the message to access it.

{ _I have no plans._ }

Shepard reads the message again – a third time – and the weight on her chest simultaneously expands and lessens. She holds her bottom lip between her teeth to keep from grinning.

[ _I can cook dinner? I mean, I **can** cook, but would you like that?_ ]

{ _I would._ }

Shepard releases her lip, and consequently that brimming grin, when she reads Liara’s reply. [ _Great. Let’s say 19:00?_ ]

{ _I’ll be there._ }

[ _I’ll be waiting._ ]

{ _Jane?_ }

[ _Yeah?_ ]

{ _I’m going to need your address…_ }

Shepard lets a whispered expletive tumble from her lips, and then quickly forwards the address to her shared apartment. Seconds later, she receives a brief note of confirmation that Liara has not only received it, but knows of the location, and their conversation simpers off with words of excitement and a quick reminder to get back to work from Dr. T’Soni herself.

Jane gladly tucks her omni-tool away, and stares at the essay on her monitor with new, and brightly brimming eyes. Now all she has to worry about, she thinks as she scrolls back to the very top of the document, is what disaster of a meal she can put together that won’t send Liara running for the hills before she's had a chance to properly woo her.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, sorry again for the delay! I had a frustrating little writing block and then got sick, which was lots of fun, but your encouragement kept me going. :) I’m still feeling a little fuzzy right now, and this was written mainly in two large, delirious chunks, so I’m sorry for the quality.

Saturday arrives like a harbinger of winter.

Shepard eats breakfast in front of a weather report, chewing cereal over the dulcet whisper of rain against the kitchen window. It comes in like a mist, so fine that it hangs in the air before it falls, and coats the glass in droplets so small as to distort the entire pane and the greyscale image beyond it. Shepard sets her cereal bowl down once she’s finished and moves to pull the window to a close, a frown on her face.

The weather report hadn’t been promising. She hopes that isn’t an omen.

By the time mid-afternoon rolls around, the sky has already grown dark and rain comes down like a nine-tailed lash against every east-facing window within the apartment.  Inside, Shepard turns a standing lamp on and rolls out an exercise mat in the middle of the sitting area. Jack appears an hour and a half later, sauntering in a way that her industrial black boots make barely a sound on the hard floor. She spares Shepard a glance only once she’s turned on the television, and sits with both legs apart and a very full mug of something steaming hanging precariously by the handle between them.

Shepard eases out of a stretch and shifts on the mat until she can lie comfortably on her back, both legs bent at the knee. She rubs the sweat from her brow with one hand and eases the other behind her head for support. “Looks like winter’s coming early,” she muses aloud, head angled so that she can see the screen. Jack grunts in agreement. “Does this mean you’re going to start wearing clothes again?” Shepard turns a smug, yet exhausted smirk on Jack. “Assuming there was once a time when the great Jack Nought subjected herself to such constraints…”

Jack barely flinches as she takes a sip from her drink. “Fuck off, Shepard.”

“Touchy subject?”

“Nah,” she lowers the mug so that Shepard can see her grin, and then winks, “but I know how much you enjoy staring at my tits.”

“Tats.” Shepard’s face drops. “I was drunk, I said _tats_.”

“I know what I heard.” She lowers the mug again and Shepard is treated to a scent of the surprisingly meaty aroma that fills the air. “Sorry, Shep, you’re not my type.”

Ignoring that, Shepard pulls herself up into a sitting position and begins rolling one leg of her leggings up past the knee. “What are you drinking?” she asks, and begins gently working the prosthesis away from her leg. Once it’s off, she leans it against the sofa where Jack is sitting and begins massaging her thigh.

“Gravy,” Jack replies, pulling the mug away from her lips and setting it down. Her hands go, instead, to the prosthetic leg, which she hauls up into her lap without any qualms for the sweat that still clings to it. Below her, Shepard makes a face, but forgoes the scathing comment when she notices what has captured Jack’s interest. Her eyes pull tight at the corners.

“That’s very expensive,” she says, no small amount of warning in her voice.

Jack turns the prosthesis over again, tapping the side of the shin and rubbing two fingers against it. “Feels real,” she hums, then turns to Shepard with a thoughtful, mischievous expression. “You know, I bet I could fix this right up for you. What do you say? Seeing as you like _my tats_ so much…”

“Don’t you dare.”

Jack lets out a heinous chuckle and sets the prosthesis down again. She nods once towards the thigh that Shepard is still massaging, working her fingers in tight circles with enough pressure to turn her already pale skin a ghostly white. “It still gives you shit?”

“Sometimes.” She bends her knee, trapping one hand between thigh and shin, and works the joint there. Jack tilts her head to get a better look at the severed shin. It’s not the first time that she’s seen Shepard without her prosthetic in place, but only recently has their relationship turned friendly enough for her to finally feel comfortable relaxing in the same living space as her. She makes the most of it, now, and gets a good look. “Mainly just feels weird.”

“Gnarly scar,” she says, and then grins at Shepard with all of her teeth. “Princess.”

“Thanks,” Shepard snorts and relaxes her leg again, reaching for the crutch that she’d set down by her side before beginning her exercise routine. She eases up onto her foot and then uses the crutch for leverage to get off the floor completely, grunting at the effort. “It reminds me of your face.”

Jack splutters into her mug of gravy with an impressed cackle.

 

After a quick shower, Shepard makes a round of the apartment, avoiding Jack’s bedroom altogether and tidying up every other spec and flaw that comes to light. She sips sparingly at a cup of coffee while she cleans, leaving little under a half of the cup untouched when it becomes uncomfortably cold. With the caffeine driving her nerves, she finishes with the tidying with well over an hour before Liara is set to arrive.

The thought stops her in her tracks on the way to the kitchen, and she spins around for the third time in as many minutes, taking stock of the apartment. It’s not the most comfortable living area; Shepard is used to the minimal décor of her admittedly lavish cabin, but even then a lot of the luxuries were added by design, not integrated into the small living area by Shepard herself, for her own comfort or pleasure. Aside from the model-sized warships lifted from her cabin, the majority of which made it into her bedroom, the apartment is severely lacking in any visual stimulus.

For a long time, Shepard had learned to appreciate sparsity, and Jack, apparently, is no better.

(On the rare occasions that Shepard has seen into her flatmate’s bedroom, it’s been far too dark to make out little more than the sepulchral forms of the basic furniture Shepard had advertised the room with. For all she knows, every wall is covered in a different poster, but she has her doubts. Jack isn’t always an easy person to live with, but Shepard has never had to complain about clutter.)

Still, there’s something decidedly _clinical_ about the standard metallic walls and flooring of the apartment complex, now that Shepard really looks at it. She thinks back to Liara’s office, the organised mess that her professor likely brings with her wherever she goes, and wonders if inviting Liara over here wasn’t the good idea she’d initially assumed she’d had.

Is it too late to buy some potted plants, she wonders..?

The thought remains with her through her last minute grocery shopping. She hesitates by the gardening aisle of the closest supermarket for a little too long, picks up and then replaces three separate plant pots, and then nearly gives up altogether. At the last minute, just before reaching the end of the aisle, she grabs a short, prickly-looking succulent and sets it into her basket beside the veg and dried noodles.

“God, I hope Liara eats human food,” she sighs aloud, wondering for not the first time that evening if she shouldn’t have just ordered some take-out.

By the time she makes it home, it’s too late for her to have any doubts, and so Shepard does what Shepard does best. She compartmentalises her thoughts until the only thing that she allows to settle in her mind for more than a few, fleeting seconds, are the instructions that she follows, word-for-word, on how to spice up a simple stir-fry.

Shepard is halfway through the preparations for the meal, keeping a close eye on the time, when the sound of a hissing bedroom door behind her causes her to freeze. She holds her breath, feels her heart sink right into her stomach, and slowly turns to peer over one shoulder. Jack’s grin turns decidedly shark-like the second she gives away her discomfort.

“Hey, Shepard,” she drawls, doing little to mask her delight. She sidles up to the opposite side of the counter that Shepard is working at and steals a chunk of spring onion, tossing it casually past her lips. “Busy?”

Shepard’s eyes narrow. “I am.”

“What’s all this?” Jack bends at the hip, leaning her elbows on either side of the chopping board, and resting her chin in both hands.

“…stir-fry.”

“Stir-fry,” Jack repeats with an enthusiastic lilt. Shepard feels her stomach clench at the sight of the glint in Jack’s eyes. “When’s your hot date getting here?”

“Seven.”

Jack pinches a slice of red pepper off the chopping board, holding it between finger and thumb, and takes a precise bite out of the very tip of it. She chews slowly, that thoughtful, awful expression returning to her face, and then taps two fingers on the counter as though she’s just had a thought.

“So, I guess you’re going to want the place to yourself for the evening, huh?”

“That… is what we agreed to,” Shepard says slowly, forcing herself to set her chopping knife down when Jack’s nimble fingers go in for another slice of pepper. “R _emember_?”

“Do I remember…?” She taps the corner of her mouth with the end of the slice of pepper. “Do I remember the day you tried to creep me into giving you some alone time, instead of just outright asking if I could slip out for the night…? You know, like a decent person?”

Shepard groans. “Jack, please.”

“Please _what_ , Shepard?” Jack slowly blinks her big, brown eyes. “Please treat you with a little respect…?”

If it was anyone else, Shepard might think that she’s seriously fucked something up. As it is, Jack is about as subtle as a brick, and she can’t keep that wolfish smile under control for much longer. She leans in closer on the counter, finally pops what is left of the pepper slice past her lips, and narrows her eyes as though she’s savouring the sweet sensation of victory.

“You’re fucking adorable when you squirm,” she laughs, and Shepard finally breathes again.

“I thought I wasn’t your type?” she smirks, and safely picks the knife back up again. She reaches for a clove of garlic. Opposite her, Jack snorts and pushes herself out of the way, giving her enough room to go on chopping in relative peace.

“Seven, huh?” Jack says suddenly, glancing at a clock. She makes a wincing noise that makes Shepard’s gut drop. Jack waves one hand towards the counter, including the mess of ingredients into her question, and Shepard broadens her shoulders defensively. “You’re leaving this a little late, aren’t you?”

“No.”

“Did you shower after your work out?”

“Yes.”

Jack nods her head, _good_.

“Did you shave?”

With a sigh, Shepard lets the knife clatter back to the counter. She sends Jack a pointed look, and Jack does her best to ignore it. Or misses it. Honestly, Shepard doesn’t even know anymore. If anyone can fuck with her head, it’s Jack Nought. Thankfully, Jack relinquishes that particular line of questioning and instead focuses on Shepard’s attire. The jeans aren’t unfamiliar, and the tank top is one of the many that make up at least 50% of Shepard’s wardrobe.

“You’re wearing that?”

“I am, obviously,” Shepard grits out, but casts herself a doubtful glance, anyway. “Why…?”

Jack shrugs her shoulders. She thinks of being polite. The thought is quickly discarded.

“You’re jacking up the heating bill just so you can show off your tits to your date.” It isn’t a question, but there is a hint of disbelief in her voice that has Shepard frowning, a defensive statement already crawling its way up her throat. “You’re that desperate to get laid?”

“I’m not showing off my tits,” Shepard says, and then, at Jack’s incredulous stare: “I’m showing off my _arms_.” She flexes to make her point, and Jack groans, low and impatient, in the back of her throat. “Besides, if I turn the heating down any, I’m afraid your skinny little ass might freeze.”

Jack lets out a soft _ooh_ , but Shepard can’t figure out if she’s insulted her or impressed her. Still, a middle finger is raised in front of her face, and held there persistently even when the intercom by the front door begins buzzing. Shepard tenses. She turns quickly to Jack, and Jack lowers her finger, finally, using the same hand to gesture towards the door when Shepard continues to stare at her with a look of mild panic in her eyes.

“What the fuck are you waiting for? It won’t answer itself.”

Her words finally push Shepard into action, and she casts herself another doubtful look. “Shit,” she hisses, running her hands under the tap and grabbing a towel to dry them on. She moves quickly out of the kitchen, but the intercom buzzes again before she can reach it. “ _Shit_.”

With no small hint of amusement, Jack turns to follow her with her gaze, leaning one hip into the counter and grinning. She steals another slice of pepper while Shepard’s back is turned, and strains her hearing to catch the one-sided conversation Shepard is having at the front door.

“…hey, sorry,” Shepard says, a breathless quality to her voice. “I had to clean my hands.” Jack spots her showing the camera the towel that she’s still holding and shakes her head. “Uh, I’ll let you up, one second… there. You’re clear, heh.” The intercom’s screen goes blank. “Fuck me.”

“The direct approach, huh?” Jack laughs, coming up behind her. “Lemme know how that works.”

Shepard wheels on her as though just now realising that Jack is here, seconds before Liara will be here. Her eyes widen. “You aren’t supposed to be here,” she hisses, shoving the towel towards Jack’s middle. “You said you’d _be out_.” Jack takes a hold of the towel before it can fall, and frowns. “You have to leave right now.”

“Right now?” Jack asks dubiously.

“ _Right now_.” Shepard flaps her hands against Jack’s stomach until she takes a disturbed step back. “I say this with respect, Jack: _please_ fuck off.”

“You want me to go right now, through that door?” Jack reiterates, shoving a thumb towards the front door. “The same door your date’s gonna walk through any second now?”

As though realising how that will look, Shepard freezes again. Jack would never just pass Liara by without making a comment. It isn’t in her nature to make things easy, when she can make them so, so difficult. She lets out a strangled groan and shoots Jack a warning glare, pointing a finger at her chest. “If you so much as make one crass comment…”

“Oh, shit, Shepard,” Jack laughs, “keep talking, you might be my type after all.”

Shepard groans again.

There’s another quick buzz of the intercom, signalling a request for admittance from the other side of the door. Slowly, she lowers her finger from Jack, who grins and steps closer to see who the opening door will reveal. The metallic panels part with a familiar hiss, and all at once Jack realises just why Shepard returned the packet of condoms she left out for her. She sucks in a deep breath, and Shepard tenses as though having just been struck.

“ _Liara,_ ” she says too loudly, and Liara’s smile falters. She glances quickly between Jack and Shepard, her spine straightening with alarm, but forces herself to recover. She takes an uncertain step forward when Shepard ushers her inside, and the three of them stare between each other for a short moment.

Jack has to bite down on her tongue to keep from laughing.

(Shepard will totally owe her for this rare show of consideration.)

“Liara,” Shepard says again, calmer this time, as the front door closes. “Uh, this is Jack.” She gestures towards Jack, her eyes widening when Jack catches her gaze. _Be very careful_ , that look says, and Jack’s grin broadens even further. “My flatmate. Jack, this is Liara. My… date.”

For her part, Liara recovers with a few quick blinks. She tucks her closed umbrella close enough into her side that it begins dripping water over her shoes. “Hello,” she says, and even manages a polite smile, "It's a pleasure to meet you." Shepard almost smacks Jack in the stomach when she continues grinning like a hyena. “Jane never mentioned that she has a flatmate.”

Her wide, blue eyes turn towards her student, and Shepard reads the alarm there easily enough.

“She didn’t?” Jack drawls before Shepard has a chance to say anything. She turns to Shepard with that too-wide grin and licks her teeth. “She’s an inconsiderate little shit, isn’t she?” Liara’s eyes widen even further, her lips parting to begin a quick defence, but Jack isn’t done yet. “Manipulative, too.” She turns to Liara in warning. “And she can’t dance for shit, whatever that says about her performance in the bedroom…”

“ _O-kay_ ,” Shepard quickly jumps in, and tries out a laugh that sticks in her throat. “Don’t you have somewhere to be, _Jack_?”

“What?”

“You know, _that place_. That you have to _be_.” She lowers her voice to a strained whisper. "Right now."

Liara stares between them in concern.

Finally, Jack backs down with an easy step backwards, holding her hands up in a mock show of surrender. Her grin doesn’t leave her face for a second. “It was nice meeting you, Blue,” she tells Liara, her voice lilting insincerely, but by this point Shepard is just glad that she’s leaving. “I will be coming back later, so if you guys could contain the fucking to your bedroom, Shepard, I would appreciate that.”

She walks backwards towards the door, salutes inaccurately, and then turns. Shepard sighs resignedly as they watch Jack leave the apartment. “I’m gonna kill her.” Liara turns to her, eyes still wide with alarm. “Not literally,” she winces. “Maybe.” Liara utilizes that perfect _stern teacher_ frown, and Shepard sighs and throws a hand out towards the door. “She’d deserve it.”

Liara shakes her head slowly, but the corners of her lips flutter upwards just enough to let Shepard know that the date isn’t completely ruined before it’s had a chance to properly begin. She can’t help but smirk back, and all of a sudden the tension leaves her body. She sighs and lets out a huff of laughter before reaching out for Liara’s umbrella. Liara gladly relinquishes it and begins taking off her coat.

“Your flatmate is… very blunt,” she says when Shepard takes the coat from her, too, and hangs it up in a closet. “Is that a human thing?”

“No, that’s a Jack thing.”

Shepard turns around in time to catch Liara’s teasing smirk, and she slides the closet door closed with a roll of her eyes. “She wasn’t supposed to be here. She swore she’d step out for the evening, but,” she heaves a sigh, stepping closer to Liara, now, and admiring her outfit, “she likes to torture me…”

The sentence trails off on a breath as Shepard’s eyes linger on Liara’s shirt. It’s a breezy, creamy colour with wide three-quarter-length sleeves, tucked into the waistband of one of her usual past-the-knee black skirts. The neckline, however, marks this shirt out as decidedly _un_ professional, plunging a good couple of inches lower than Liara’s typically modest school shirts. Shepard’s tongue sticks to the roof of her dry mouth.

A foot above her focus-level, Liara clears her throat. Shepard snaps back with an expression that tears itself between panic and apology, but she relaxes at the sight of Liara’s knowing smirk. “You know,” Liara says, her voice dropping, “I’ve been here for three minutes already, and you still haven’t properly greeted me.”

There’s a hint of teasing accusation in her voice that Shepard practically melts upon hearing. “Oh, really?” She steps into Liara, hands going to her waist. Liara’s own settle on Shepard’s forearms; she bites her bottom lip in anticipation. “That’s terrible form, on my part. Really. I’m an awful host— _bad manners_ , in this day and age?” Shepard exaggerates, narrowing her eyes at herself. “Unforgivable. Do you want to just leave now, before this gets any worse?”

“Stop,” Liara laughs, and finally closes the distance between them, pressing her lips to Shepard’s. The hands on her waist slip up to her ribs, Jane’s thumbs rubbing gently back and forth, and Liara gives into the urge to take Shepard’s face between her hands. She holds her there for a moment longer, while the kiss is still relatively chaste, and then pulls back with a soft sound of parting lips. “You’re ridiculous, Jane.”

“I’m sorry,” Shepard murmurs, sounding anything but. Her hands slip around to Liara’s back, settling near the base of her spine, and Liara shudders pleasantly at the warmth that she’s suddenly found herself wrapped up in. Shepard is like her own sun – pulling her in, burning her up. “Did you find the place okay?”

“I did.” She strokes Shepard’s face one last time and then steps back.

“Good. I worried.” She tilts her head towards the kitchen, leading Liara back towards the counters that are covered in her unfinished meal preparations. “This won’t take me long,” she promises, gesturing towards the chopping board. “Do you want a glass of wine? Cider?”

“Wine is fine, thank you.” Liara stops just outside the small square of counters, giving Shepard her space to cook. She places an elbow on the breakfast bar, leaning into it as she casts a glance around the kitchen, and then the rest of the apartment beyond it. In her peripheral vision, Shepard pokes her head into a cupboard and retrieves two wine glasses. She sets them both down in front of her, and Liara turns, her attention successfully caught.

“I bought a Thessian white,” Shepard says as she pours the drinks. “I’m not exactly a wine connoisseur, but booze is booze, right? Anyway, it should go well with the stir-fry I’m making, and I thought… well, if you’re going to be eating alien food, you could at least be drinking familiar wine…”

She trails off, looking a little embarrassed, and sneaks a glance up at Liara once she’s finished pouring.

“That’s very thoughtful,” Liara agrees, and she peers again at the chopping board with interest. “Stir-fry, you said?”

“That’s right. With Earthen vegetables, if that’s okay?” Liara nods her head. “Or I can add some prawns?”

“Oh, yes please.”

Shepard grins and goes to retrieve the prawns from the fridge. With her attention on the ingredients for dinner, Liara finds herself a place at the breakfast bar, easing into a stool so that she can comfortably watch Shepard as she prepares their meal. When Shepard spots her up there, she grins and asks, “So, how was your day?”

They maintain a comfortable conversation between them while Shepard begins adding ingredients into a large wok. Liara tells Shepard of her daily routine, the comical run-in she had with a neighbour earlier that morning, and just how many hours she has spent grading papers (“and no, Jane, you’re not finding out your mark early”).

“Actually, I have been very much looking forward to this,” Liara admits after a while, wetting her lips. She casts another sweeping glance around the apartment, feeling too nervous to really take it in. “It feels nice to not have to sneak around all the time.” She turns back to Shepard with a wry smile. “Not that I don’t enjoy hiding inside my office with you.”

“That has been well established,” Shepard grins.

Once she’s finished, Shepard separates the stir-fry between two bowls and sets them down on the breakfast table. Liara peers into them curiously, but her mouth has been watering ever since Shepard began adding ingredients to the wok. She waits patiently while Shepard moves around the breakfast bar, flicking on some under-counter lamps and turning off the main kitchen light. After a second thought, she places a candle and a strange looking plant at the centre of the breakfast bar, and then flashes Liara a pleased, if self-deprecating smile.

“There,” she says, “that’s almost romantic.”

She lights the candle with a lighter and the flame flickers across Shepard’s features, making her eyes shine like two bright jewels. “Almost,” Liara agrees, but her voice drops in both interest and appreciation. Shepard’s smile widens before she takes a seat to Liara’s right, bringing a bowl and her glass of wine with her.

Liara lifts her glass, but before she can bring it to her lips, Shepard clicks her own against the side in toast.

“Enjoy,” she says, and even through her smile Liara can detect more than a hint of her nerves.

“I’m sure I will.” She takes a reassuringly large bite of the stir-fry, and Shepard suffers through the following few seconds in torturous anticipation until she’s swallowed it. She raises her eyebrows at Liara in silent inquiry, her smile already beginning to waver. Liara snorts delicately and nods her head. “It’s very nice, Jane, thank you.”

Beside her, Shepard breathes a sigh of relief and finally allows herself to take her first mouthful of food.

 

After dinner, Shepard insists on leaving the dishes for later and tempts Liara into the sitting area by proceeding first, both freshly refilled glasses of wine in hand. She sets them down on the coffee table and takes a seat on the sofa, patting the space beside her when Liara drifts in wearing an amused smile.

“You should have let me help you clear away dinner,” she insists even as she takes her seat.

“No way,” Shepard shakes her head. “I invited you on our first date, I’ll deal with all the mess. If I’d have taken you out, I’d have picked up the bill. That’s how it works, right?”

“For you, perhaps,” Liara smirks, reaching for her glass of wine. She goes to take a sip, but pulls the rim of the glass back from her lips at the last minute. “I can’t help but feel a little guilty. You spent all that time preparing it…”

“All that time? I made stir-fry.”

“That’s not the point.”

Shepard laughs and shakes her head. “You’re upset with me because I won’t let you wash my dishes?”

Liara takes a moment to consider this – to reconsider her stance in the argument. She takes that sip of wine, finally, and blinks a few times upon swallowing. “I see your point,” she finally concedes, and smirks again at Shepard’s obnoxious grin. “Perhaps I was simply arguing with you for principle’s sake.”

“Or because you enjoy it,” Shepard argues, and hides her smile behind the rim of her glass when Liara’s cheeks glow with a faint blush.

“I do,” she agrees. “I _am_ enjoying this.”

“Well, good. I want you to be able to relax here.” Shepard sets her glass back down again and Liara gets the distinct impression that something important is brewing on her tongue. “You know, despite what you think, I’m sure it’s me who’s putting more pressure on you, here. We can argue all day about moral grounds and whatever, but you have so much more to lose if this… you know.” She gestures weakly between them. “I’m just… glad you’re humouring me.”

It’s comes out on a huff of mirthless laughter, but Liara has well learned, by now, the ways in which Shepard deflects her feelings through humour. She lowers her wine glass into her lap and reaches forward, placing her hand over Jane’s knee. “I’m not humouring you,” she says, a hint of insult spiking her words, but she softens them with a gentle squeeze to Shepard’s leg. “I want to do this. Very much.”

Shepard seems to check her face for sincerity, and then her smile gentles. “Yeah,” she looks down to Liara’s hand, and then brushes her fingers along her delicate, blue wrist, “me too.” She watches her own fingers for a moment longer, trailing the tips along the bones that protrude from Liara’s wrist, to the knuckles at the base of her fingers. She bites her lip in consideration. “Would it be super crass to ask you if we can make out on the couch like teenagers?”

“Mm, terribly crass,” Liara agrees, sliding her hand barely an inch higher on Shepard’s thigh. Shepard sucks in a breath when she squeezes down again, her leg jolting at the ticklish contact, and Liara’s lips flicker with the briefest hint of a smile as she feels the muscles beneath her hand react. “But I encourage you to ask, anyway.”

“Liara?”

“Yes, Jane?”

“Can we make out on the couch like teenagers?”

Liara meets her gaze, her lips pursing. She considers her answer for maybe .2 seconds. “If you ask me properly.”

Shepard’s lips twitch, but she tempers the smile down. Before she poses the question again, Shepard reaches over to take the glass from Liara’s hand. She sets it down near her own on the coffee table and then settles back on the sofa, closer to Liara this time, her right thigh pressed against Liara’s left. Her hand returns to the one that Liara has kept on her thigh, while the other pushes into the sofa cushions by Liara’s hip, steadying herself as she leans in.

She’s close enough to brush her lips against Liara’s, and Liara is expecting it, her eyelashes fluttering in anticipation, but the kiss does not come. Instead, Shepard deliberately tilts her head towards the small hollow of Liara’s ear.

“Dr. T’Soni,” she begins, her voice dropping into a husky whisper, “ _may_ we make out on the couch like teenagers?” She brushes her lips against the beginnings of Liara’s crest in not-quite-a-kiss, and adds for good measure: “Please?”

Liara’s body shudders against hers, and Shepard cannot tame her smile when she hears a heavy breath fall past Liara’s teeth. Instead of answering, Liara turns into Shepard, her blue eyes hooded. She lifts her free hand to Shepard’s cheek, her fingers slipping back into thick, red hair, and then pulls Shepard in towards her mouth.

The kiss is all softness and sighs for a long moment, and Shepard indulges in the fullness of Liara’s lips, kissing the corners of her mouth and then taking her plump bottom lip between her own. She lets the tip of her tongue brush against it, tasting the hints of stir-fry and wine, and Liara sighs again. When she applies a little pressure and sucks, scrapes the lip between her teeth, a shuddering moan catches in Liara’s throat.

Liara eases her head back ever so slightly, making enough room to rescue her lip. It makes a soft popping noise as it parts from Shepard’s mouth, and then she surges forward, noses bumping, and slides her tongue past Shepard’s lips. The move grants her a welcoming groan from Shepard, who is quick to meet Liara’s tongue with the press of her own. The fingers in her hair tighten, and Shepard groans again, hands coming around to Liara’s hips to encourage her closer.

When the position they’re in isn’t enough, Shepard utilises her hold on Liara’s hips by easing her off the couch cushion and into her lap. Liara accepts the new position seamlessly and without complaint. Her skirt hitches up along her bare thighs when she straddles Shepard’s waist, but the sudden exposure doesn’t bother her – doesn’t even register. Shepard is warm and solid against her front, and Liara presses into her like she can’t get enough, can’t stand to not take advantage of the position and feel Shepard against every inch of her skin.

Her arms slip around Jane’s shoulders, that one hand never relinquishing the grasp it has in tangled hair, and Shepard moans when the pressure eases on the edge of discomfort, shooting a pulse of desire down low into her stomach. Liara answers with a noise of her own, a breathy whimper when Shepard’s hands slip around her hips and settle on her backside, urging her closer.

That same, overwhelming throb begins at the back of Liara’s head, pounding in time with the pulse between her legs, but she holds off the urge to meld with an impressive focus now that she knows what to expect from her traitorous body. Shepard’s hands on her backside feel wonderful, squeezing gently as though she’s not sure if she’s about to be asked to stop at any second, and Liara rolls her hips back into her hands in encouragement.

Shepard answers with a firmer squeeze, and Liara gasps against her mouth.

She eases back from the kiss with a shuddering breath, her lips swollen and her eyes beginning cloud in the corners with arousal. The throb between her legs turns particularly difficult, and Liara squeezes her legs around Shepard’s hips in an effort to close them, to quell the ache down with some form of friction, but the position she’s sitting in does not allow her thighs to meet.

Sensing her predicament, and fairing no better herself, Jane trails her hands back from Liara’s ass. They continue down past her hips, her skirt, and finally settle on the bare skin of Liara’s thighs. She lifts her gaze to Liara’s face and feels her cheeks burn with a flush at the plaintive look of desire that she finds there. Shepard’s thumbs brush against the rumpled ends of the skirt, pushing it ever so slightly higher, and she waits and watches Liara’s face for any hint of disapproval.

Realising what Shepard is planning, Liara sucks her bottom lip past her teeth and dips her head in an unwavering nod. She holds her breath as Shepard sighs against her, and her fingers begin moving again, catching the ends of Liara’s skirt and drawing it up, up over her thighs. She keeps her gaze locked with Liara’s the entire time, until her fingers meet with hips, and Liara is completely exposed.

Blue cheeks deepen in hue with a blush, but Shepard has to wonder if it’s from arousal, and not embarrassment. She returns her fingers to Liara’s hips and gently urges her closer. Liara does not hesitate, and slides her hips forward until her pelvis meets fully with Shepard’s. So close that she isn’t sure if the throbbing between her legs is still just her own. The thought alone is enough to send her heartbeat reeling, and the urge to initiate a meld intensifies suddenly – a near overwhelming throb that drives her hips into Shepard’s in a slow but forceful grind.

Shepard hisses at the contact, but it isn’t nearly enough. She wishes that she hadn’t chosen the skin-tight jeans to wear, even if the seam presses flush against her with every tantalising roll of Liara’s hips. She needs skin on skin; she needs to feel how soft and warm Liara’s thighs feel tangled around her own.

She tries to reel her thoughts in, closing her eyes for a moment to catch her breath. When she opens them again, Liara seems to be in a similar state. Her blue eyes open and her blush deepens when she catches Shepard’s gaze. Needing to anchor herself into something, into anything that isn’t the urge to meld, she draws her upper body back and slides both of her hands along Jane’s shoulders.

Jane’s arms are her salvation, the only distraction strong enough to draw her thoughts away from the temptation to join their consciences. She slides her fingers down over muscles, pausing over scars, scratching a blunt nail against each and every one that she finds. Jane hums in appreciation, her thumbs working against Liara’s hips in small, firm strokes that provide their own kind of distraction from Liara’s thoughts.

While they’re sitting there, breathing heavily, in the din and quiet of the sitting area, Liara makes the mistake of lowering her eyes between them, to where their pelvises are pressed together. Her lips audibly part at the sight. Her black skirt is wrinkled around her hips, held in place by Shepard’s strong fingers, and her exposed thighs are pressed completely against the coarse material of Shepard’s jeans. Unable to help herself, she rolls her hips forward again and can feel the seam that runs down the centre of those jeans in entirely too-intimate places.

The fingers around her hips squeeze in approval.

When she looks up to gauge Shepard’s reaction, she realises that Jane has been mirroring her position almost perfectly. Her lips are parted, her cheeks flushed pink, and her green eyes are down-turned and heavily-lidded, focused on the space where their lower bodies meet. From her position, Liara is sure that Jane must have a much better view, and her blush burns down to her chest.

Slowly, even cautiously, Shepard draws her fingers away from Liara’s hips, and slips them instead beneath the bunched hem of her skirt. They remain in a relatively respectful place by her upper thighs, and she looks up into Liara’s face, barely repressing a keening noise when she sees the building darkness in the corners of her eyes.

“Is this okay?” she asks, her voice thick with desire.

Liara doesn’t trust herself to speak, at first. She takes a deep breath in and nods her head, swallowing past the thickness of her tongue. “This is _very_ okay.”

A shudder runs through Shepard’s body as she slides her hands further up. Liara’s thighs are soft and smooth beneath her palms, and Shepard moves slowly, savouring the contact until her fingers meet with the elasticated hem of Liara’s underwear. She ignores it, for now, not wanting to press too far, and instead brings her hands back around Liara’s hips. The touch sends similarly appreciative jolts through the pair of them, the connection much stronger now, and Liara whimpers when she looks down and sees the place where Shepard’s hands bunch beneath her skirt.

The next noise she makes is muffled by a pair of insistent lips and a requesting tongue, and Liara opens her mouth with a thankful sigh, welcoming Shepard’s tongue with her own. The hands on her hips draw her closer still, and Shepard straightens against the couch, pressing her own hips forward to meet Liara’s in a slow grind.

The sensation is unbearable – enough to drive her mad, but not nearly enough to get her off. Liara squeezes her thighs around Shepard’s hips and thinks of pulling back, requesting to be taken to Shepard’s bed and thoroughly ravished, but she cannot bring herself to lose any contact with Shepard just yet. She’ll do it, she tells herself – she will, any minute now, she’ll make her request and she will go to bed with the woman she hasn’t been able to stop thinking about for the past few months, and she will—

A door hisses behind them.

Liara’s hips freeze, the hands around them tightening almost uncomfortably as the pair of them realise what has happened. Liara is the first to pull back, her head swimming with momentary disorientation, and she peers over Shepard’s shoulder with wide eyes and a terrible blush.

Shepard falls back into the couch with a disappointed sigh, her eyes closing. She already knows who has stumbled upon them, but the sound of Jack’s throaty chuckle still draws a mortified groan from deep within her throat. Liara’s reaction is much less resigned than her own. Her stiff body jolts as though she’s just had her ass pinched, and she scurries out of Shepard’s lap and into the space beside her, hurrying to straighten out her skirt.

“Shit, don’t mind me,” Jack croons as she comes closer, dripping rain water on the floor and rustling a bag of take-out. It’s as much of an apology as they’ll ever get, and maybe it’s a stretch to call it that. Still, Shepard opens her eyes and turns to see Jack slinking back into her room. She shoots her a glare, and Jack shrugs, unaffected. “I told you to keep it in your room,” she reminds them, and then grins at the sight of Liara’s blush becoming significantly more pronounced.

In a rare moment of pity, Jack leans against her door jam and grins at the pair of them. “Take it easy, Blue,” she calls, and Liara lowers her hands from her mortified face. “I’ve seen worse.”

She slips back into her bedroom and the door hisses closed behind her. With a quickly mounting feeling of dread, Shepard shifts her attention to Liara. ‘Blue’, she suddenly thinks, is an understatement; Liara’s cheeks have turned a deep purple, and for a moment Shepard is swamped by concern. She’s never seen Liara blush this hard before.

“I’m, uh,” she clears her throat when her tongue sticks and winces, “sorry about that.”

She isn’t sure if she means getting carried away on her sitting room couch, or for getting caught, but for her part Liara only nods her head. She is looking anywhere but at Shepard, still smoothing her skirt down, her fingers faintly shaking. Shepard takes pity on her and gives her a moment of silence to collect her thoughts.

When she does meet her gaze, the slowly dampening blush in her cheeks flares right back up again.

“I’m sorry, too,” she whispers, but Shepard is relieved to see a hint of amusement in her eyes. “I got… very carried away.”

“Yeah,” Shepard breathes, giving Liara a quick once-over, “same.”

“I should… I should probably be going. I still have a lot of work to do tomorrow.”

“Of course.” Liara eases herself off the couch only when she’s sure that her legs won’t buckle, and Shepard stands with her. “I’ll get your things.”

They meander towards the closet by the door in awkward silence. Shepard ducks briefly inside and returns again with a still-damp umbrella and Liara’s coat in hand. She helps her into it, and Liara’s blush reaches the tips of her ears, even as she murmurs her gratitude. When Shepard hands over the umbrella, she steals Liara’s other hand in her own, linking their fingers.

“Are you alright?” she asks. “I mean, I know this was embarrassing, but it hasn’t… upset you, has it?”

Her eyes crinkle in the corners when she asks, worry evident in more than her halting speech, and for the first time since being walked in on, Liara’s shoulders relax. She steps closer with a small smile and a shake of her head. “I’m not upset, no.” Squeezing Shepard’s fingers between her own, she leans forward and presses a kiss to Shepard’s jaw. “Mortified, perhaps, but not upset.”

Shepard’s relief is evident. She sways closer, her free hand going to Liara’s hip, and leans her forehead into Liara’s.

“Then… we can do this again some time?” she asks, voice lilting up at the end. “Y’know, without the weird part where my flatmate walks in on us at the end.”

“I’d like that,” Liara smiles, and Shepard kisses her properly, if only fleetingly. “I’ll let you know when I can spare an evening.”

“You do that.”

They share another lingering kiss, and then Liara untangles herself and her fingers from Shepard. She tucks the umbrella in close to her side, fully prepared to have to use it, and says a blushing goodbye. She steps out of the apartment and into the hallway, waves briefly, and then begins her departure.

The door behind her closes on Shepard’s smiling face.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick bit of fluff. :)

With the arrival of winter comes the beginning of the end-of-term exams, and it becomes more and more difficult for Shepard and Liara to find that ‘spare evening’ that they had been hoping for.

They steal time together when they can, sitting at conjoined tables in the library and various on-campus eateries, and then skulking back to Liara’s office when the longing looks and inconspicuous games of footsie prove to be too much – just a step of teasing gone too far, having worked them into a frenzy, sending each other wide, furtive glances and then eyeing the nearest exit. More than once has Shepard had Liara on the edge of her desk, fitting herself perfectly between her thighs, and thinking how useful the solid surface could be, if they ever moved past indulgent, over-the-clothing touching.

Not that Shepard’s complaining.

For somebody who has spent the majority of her working life in a panicky rush towards some end goal – a race against a detonating explosive, a sprint towards an awaiting shuttle, a mad dash away from a cacophony of bullets, grenades, the screech of thresher maws, harvesters, mutilated rachni… For somebody who is used to—no, who is especially _adapted_ to dealing with immense amounts of pressure and a task to complete on time, at the risk of her own life should she fail, Shepard revels in the easy, organic, and utterly unrushed development of her relationship with Liara.

It is slow going. It is snail’s-pace, and she loves that.

Still, she is not without her longings.

When Shepard’s own work load decreases, Liara’s truly begins, and all of Shepard’s previous bouts of patience begin to wear thin. But, she will not push it. She catches Liara in increasingly sparse conversations after their Monday morning class, and is often in contact with her long after the two of them have returned home for the evenings, where not even the quick replies delivered straight to her omni-tool, or the half-whispered conversations well into the night, can make up for the strength of her longing for Liara’s physical presence – her closeness, her warmth.

 

On a particularly cold morning, when the rain falls in fat droplets that, every ten minutes or so, shift between water and sleet, Jack finds her pathetic and alone, still wearing her mismatched pyjamas, on the sitting room couch. Her red hair is hanging loosely from the haphazard bun she had tied it in the night before, the occasional strand framing her face or tickling the back of her neck, and a too-full mug of hot chocolate rests heavily against her chest. The only thing keeping the scorching heat of it from burning her skin is the thick cotton sweater that she had worn to bed.

When she spots Jack, she sniffs loudly and says, voice lilting from her bunged-up nose, “Pan’s still hot, if you want some.” She blows across the surface of her hot chocolate to indicate her meaning, and Jack scrunches her face up and lingers a little way from the sitting area, as though getting any closer to Shepard would be a direct attack on her health.

She probably has a point…

“You look fucked up,” she says unhelpfully, and Shepard glares at her as she saunters through to the kitchen, wearing a jacket over the thin straps of her usual attire, but otherwise braving the cold. Because of _course_ Jack could walk around half naked, and it is still she who gets sidled with a cold, she thinks bitterly.

“That’s very perceptive of you,” she mutters, mainly to herself for Jack is too far away to hear, and stuffs a twisted corner of tissue up one leaking nostril. When Jack remerges, her own mug held between both hands, steam spiralling up beneath her chin, she keeps to her spot just outside of the sitting area. Shepard narrows her eyes when she notices. “You can sit down, Jack.”

“Yeah, no thanks,” Jack snorts, and takes a sip from her drink. She burns her tongue, but that doesn’t seem to faze her in the least. “I don’t want to catch your gross – _or_ your moping.”

Shepard looks vaguely insulted at the insinuation, but with tissue hanging from her nostril, her glare loses the majority of its strength. “I’m not moping, I’m just a little under the weather.”

“Not what I’m talking about. You’ve had that lost puppy look on your face for days. You fucked something up with Blue?”

“What?” Her tone lends a little more of that missing strength to her frown. “No, I haven’t fucked anything up, she’s just… We’ve both just been really busy. My work load’s piling up, you know how it is around this time of year.”

Jack doesn’t answer, but she shifts her weight between both of her booted feet, narrowing her eyes in interest as she takes another sip of her hot chocolate. “She goes to your school?” The way she says it, with the barest hint of a grin over the lip of her mug, makes her sound like a teasing aunt, here to pinch Shepard’s cheeks and tease her about her latest school-yard-crush.

Shepard drops her gaze upon seeing it, and turns her frown to her mug, studying the rim where she has been sipping from. A slip of watery brown liquid has dribbled over the edge, making it barely a centimetre down before the heat of the mug had stopped it in its tracks. Shepard presses her thumb to it, wiping the spill away.

“Yeah,” she says, finally, and then because she just can’t help herself: “kind of.”

Thankfully, Jack doesn’t take the bait, deeming the details of Shepard’s little affair perfectly boring. She blows across the rim of her mug again and seems to take an interest in a fingernail, scratching at it and then nipping it between her teeth. Her eyes move back to Shepard, as though suddenly remembering that they’re having a conversation, and she offers a noncommittal shrug that signals the imminence of her departure.

“Well ask her back here for one of your _play dates_ soon, yeah? After you, uh,” she gestures to her own nose and does not bother to repress an ounce of her disgust at Shepard’s current appearance, “get the fuck over all that. You’ll feel better after you get laid, and I don’t have the strength in me to take one for the team.”

Shepard stares at her retreating back in absolute horror.

“Not that I’d ever want you to,” she yells after her, and the closing of Jack’s bedroom door punctuates the air like a decisive full-stop being blotted at the end of their conversation. Shepard lets out a huff of near-amusement and shakes her head. _The audacity of that skinny little…_ “Asshole.”

 

The following Monday arrives, and Shepard’s cold seems to be tapering out.

It is literally leaking out of her, and Shepard feels disgusting and sluggish, but her thoughts are a little less foggy than they were the day before.

She carries a full family pack of tissues around with her, and goes through an entire packet on the short journey from her apartment block to her History seminar. When Liara notices her, a brief tinge of sympathy pinches at the corners of her eyes. She offers a pitying smile as she sets out her workload for the day, and Shepard sits low in the chair across from her desk and sighs back, dabbing a tissue to her nose.

For the first time since taking the seat, Shepard regrets her position at the very front of the class, right beneath Liara’s nose. She’s giving her – what are they, now? – the perfect view of her disgusting sniffling into tissue after tissue. As though that isn’t enough, due to the measly few hours of sleep she’d managed to steal from the night before, Shepard at one point drifts off into a shallow sleep sitting upright in her seat, one hand stuffed beneath her chin for support.

Only the slight displacement of her elbow sliding along the smooth surface of her desk jolts her awake again, barely five minutes later, and she straightens with a start, staring guiltily up at her professor and feeling every inch the chastened school girl. For her part, Liara only blinks down at her with the same mixture of sympathy and concern that she’s been carrying with her since before the seminar began.

When they finally have the room to themselves, and the door has closed behind the last band of stragglers, Liara scoots her chair in closer to her desk and leans into it with both elbows. She lowers her voice, too, as though they still have an audience. “Jane,” she says at length, “you’re sick. Why did you come in today?”

She sounds faintly disapproving, and Shepard groans as though to say, _not you, too_ , even as she pulls another clean tissue from the pack. She blows into it with a faintly apologetic look to Liara, and then croaks out, “I have work to do. It’s only a cold, it’ll clear itself up.”

Liara’s frown deepens. “You look tired. Are you sleeping alright?”

Shepard wants to laugh at the question, but restrains herself. “I’m fine, honestly.”

“Mm…” Liara leans in ever so slightly closer and narrows her eyes. Shepard can feel her gaze darting about her face, taking in the blueish, purplish rings around her eyes, the wan complexion of her cheeks, the smile that doesn’t quite manage to stretch around the tissue that she dabs beneath her nostrils. “If only I hadn’t become so accustomed to having to gauge whether or not you were teasing me with your war stories, I might just believe you.”

“Only might?” Shepard winces, and Liara’s disapproval leaks back into concern.

“You look awful, Jane.”

“Wow, thanks.”

“You know what I mean,” she adds with a charmed smile. “You should go home and rest. No one will begrudge you for taking the day off. How you can be expected to concentrate on anything while…” _In that state_ , she had wanted to say, but clamps her teeth down before the words can get out. Shepard’s already looking rotten; there’s no use in adding insult to injury, she thinks.

Shepard huffs into her tissue and pretends that the idea doesn’t appeal to her entirely.

“And I came all this way just to see you,” she pouts, and Liara’s expression softens again.

“And I appreciate it,” she counters. “But, please, go home and rest.”

“Alright, alright,” Shepard grins, “you’ve twisted my arm.”

Liara blinks across from her in concern, attempting to gauge the magnitude of the expression, but Shepard’s hazy smile is enough to settle her nerves. When Shepard begins packing away her belongings, finally, Liara does too, and the two stand from their desks and tuck their chairs neatly underneath, ready and waiting for the next class to fill the room.

As always, Shepard finishes her packing away before Liara, and stands with the majority of her weight supported by Liara’s desk while she waits. She trains her gaze on the wide window that overlooks the corridor outside, watching the odd figure pass obliviously by, until the clipped pecks of Liara’s heels on the hard flooring signal that she’s ready to leave.

Liara leads the way, Shepard being content to drift lazily behind her, already lost in the memory of the softness and warmth of her bed. Before she can get close enough to the door to trigger the automatic-opening sensor, Liara stops and turns to Shepard, casting a brief glance towards the window to ensure that their positioning at the door is keeping them mainly out of view from those who pass by. Shepard turns to her expectantly, shifting the straps of her backpack against her shoulders.

“Get some sleep,” Liara tells her gently, and reaches out for one of her hands when Shepard has released the straps of her pack. “And drink plenty of fluids.”

“Yes, doctor,” Shepard says, and would maybe make a lewd suggestion of it, if she were in any higher spirits. The fact that she doesn’t only seems to draw on Liara’s sympathies more, and she steps in closer, keeping to the cover of the door. Should anyone walk close enough to trigger the sensor, it would open on the pair of them standing too close together like this, but for a moment Liara’s concern overrides her rational thought.

“Don’t get too close,” Shepard warns her, “you’ll catch my squick.”

But Liara seems determined. “I don’t care,” she says, and squeezes Shepard’s fingers in place for the kiss that she wants to press to her cheek. “Feel better soon, and take care of yourself.”

She says that last part with added emphasis, and holds her gaze unwaveringly until Shepard quietly promises to do as she’s told. They part ways with mutual goodbyes. Barely thirty hours later, Liara sneezes all over her work terminal and wonders if she shouldn’t have heeded Jane’s words with a little more caution.

 

By mid-week, Shepard’s cold has fizzled out to nothing other than an uncomfortable tightness in her sinuses.

She gets headaches from staring at a screen for too long, which makes her school work nearly impossible to complete, but she manages. When Liara calls late in the evening, after she’s finished her dinner-for-one, she reclines low into the comfort and support of her overstuffed pillows and activates her omni-tool.

“Jane?” her voice rings out, and Shepard adjusts the hearing aid in her right ear.

“Yeah, I’m here,” she responds quickly, “hey.”

“You’re sounding much better,” Liara says, and Shepard can hear the smile in her voice.

“You sound good, too,” she says back, more than a hint of suggestion in her voice, and a laugh trills faintly over the line.

“You’re definitely feeling better.”

“Definitely,” Shepard agrees.

They talk idly for a few more minutes, asking after each other, recollecting the events of their days. Liara diverges off on a tangent about her mother, and Shepard rolls onto her side and tucks herself around a pillow as she listens, smiling and making the appropriate ‘I’m listening’ noises.

By the time the one-sided conversation is winding down, it has become a rant, and Shepard has to bite her lip to keep from laughing. She has heard Liara frustrated before – she has heard her frazzled and stressed and annoyed – and each time it comes as a surprise, shooting a shiver down Shepard’s spine in what she thinks must be some perverse sense of delight.

“…and all the while,” Liara continues, taking a breath so that she can continue, “insinuating that I have nothing better to do – no one else to spend my time with. She makes it sound as though she’s doing her poor, recluse of a daughter a huge favour. Where else could I _possibly go_?” She lets out a disgruntled noise and then sighs.

Shepard can practically feel her stewing in the silence that followers.

“Or,” she tentatively begins, “she could just want to spend the holidays with you.” Liara remains silent on the other end of the line, and for a moment Shepard thinks she’s overstepped her place. “She probably misses you, with you being so far from Thessia. You said it’s been nearly a year since you saw her in person?”

The line remains ominously quiet, still, and Shepard’s stomach sinks. She holds her breath and briefly checks her omni-tool to ensure that the call hasn’t been disengaged, but it hasn’t. Finally, a noise like a strangled sigh bleats through, and Shepard breathes again.

“Jane,” Liara says, an edge of pleading to her voice. “Oh, Jane, I’m sorry. Of course, you’re probably right. Listen to me complaining about this to you, when you… Goddess, I didn’t even think, I’m so sorry.”

Shepard blinks. “It’s… that’s okay.”

“No, it’s not,” Liara says, that plaintive edge to her voice again, “it’s not, but thank you for being so kind about it – for listening to me while I… While I complain about my mother wanting to spend time with me like it is the worst thing in the world. By the Goddess, what a brute…”

“Liara,” Shepard quickly steps in, her lips faintly turning up, “it’s honestly okay. I don’t expect everyone to get along with their parents perfectly just because I don’t have mine anymore. You don’t have to censor yourself for my sake. And, for what it’s worth, I completely understand why you’d feel patronised by her.”

Liara’s indecision gives way to silence on the other end of the line. She makes a few false-starts, as though wanting to continue her apologies, but eventually just lets out all the air in her lungs in a long sigh. Shepard hears shifting on the other end of the line, the rustling of sheets, and is suddenly overwhelmed by the longing for Liara’s presence in the bed beside her, if just for something warm and soft to curl into. The pillow against her chest suddenly loses all of its appeal.

“You are right,” Liara says again after a while. “I’m in a poor mood from marking all day, and I’m taking it out on her.” After a brief pause, she adds on: “And on you.”

“It’s going that bad?”

“You wouldn’t believe some of the things I have been subjected to, Jane.” There’s a hint of amusement in her voice, beneath the layers of weariness and frustration, but Shepard smiles at the sound of it none-the-less. “You would not believe…”

“Oh, I might surprise you,” she grins, and Liara huffs a breathy laugh on the other end of the line.

After a brief hesitation, she goes on to say, “I am sorry, though. I promise, I didn’t just call to complain at you all night.”

“I don’t mind,” Shepard tells her. “It’s good to get it all out. And, you know, you sound kind of hot when you’re angry.” Liara huffs again, and Shepard’s grin widens. “Seriously, though, don’t worry about it. I want you to be able to talk about all that stuff with me. I’m… I’ve put all of that behind me. I’m not saying it doesn’t hurt, to think about it, and there are times when it can feel just as raw as when it first happened…”

She looks briefly down at her right leg as she says it, wincing at the phantom ache that begins throbbing in time with her heartbeat, dragged forth by the sheer power of her thoughts and imagination. She shifts her legs on the bed, rearranges herself around the pillow, trying to get more comfortable.

“But, I’m good,” she finishes, at last. “I don’t want you to think that I can’t be here for you.”

It’s too sentimental, is her first thought, when it spurned simply from a rant about Liara’s mother. It’s too much, too soon, and she feels her heart shudder in her chest at the cloying truth of the words. She _does_ want to be there for Liara, in all senses of the words; she wants to be the first person to be notified of good and bad news, the one Liara goes to when she needs to share her excitement, or the thoughts that are weighing her down.

She wants to do the same – and realises, suddenly, that she has been doing. There has not been a day gone by, in these last few weeks, where Liara was not the last person she spoke to, whether via call or message, before she fell asleep. The thought makes her warm – makes her heart sputter quickly against her ribcage, fluttering like a trapped moth.

“You are here for me,” finally comes over the line, words soft, nearly whispered, and Shepard’s heart seems to double in size. She presses her face into her pillow and grins, closes her eyes. “I’m here for you, too, you know,” Liara continues, gentler still, and Shepard uncovers her face.

“I do know,” she agrees.

“I’m glad.”

“Me too,” Shepard adds, and laughs quietly, listening as Liara does the same. “So… what, is this us making this official, or…?”

“Official?”

“Yeah, you know, our relationship. _A_ relationship.”

“Jane?”

“Are we girlfriends now?”

Liara trills a laugh, but Shepard can’t find it in herself to care. She grins at the giddy sound of it, nestling closer into her pillow when the need to s _queeze_ something overwhelms her. God, she wishes Liara were here now…

“Would you like that?” Liara asks, a lilt to her voice that implies she already knows the answer to that question. Shepard groans loudly, entirely for Liara’s benefit, because of course she does – of course she already knows. Liara laughs again when she hears it, and Shepard feels bloated on happiness – fat with contentment.

“Would _you_ like that?” she presses, instead, and Liara makes a mock-scorned noise for her stalling.

Still, she answers almost immediately. “I would like that.”

“Me too.”

“I’m glad,” Liara laughs, and Shepard snorts into her pillow.

When they have calmed down again, Shepard hears more rustling of sheets on the other end of the line. She imagines Liara in her night clothes – gown or pyjamas? – and tucks her legs in tighter. If she closes her eyes, she can almost imagine Liara in the bed beside her, taking up all of that excess space.

“Jane,” comes across the line after their brief pause, and Shepard opens her eyes again. She makes a noise that lets Liara know that she’s still here. “I did have a reason for calling, not just to check up on you, or… to rant about my mother.”

“Oh?”

“I think I’ve found that elusive spare evening…”

“ _Oh_.” That certainly grabs Shepard’s interest. “When are you thinking?”

“Some time this weekend? I’m almost finished with my marking, I could have it done within the next day or so, but if you’ve got work to still do, next weekend is—”

“No, this weekend’s good for me, too,” Shepard quickly interjects.

She reels through her mental list of things to do before the beginning of the next week, but with exams in session, the bulk of her classes have given their students a light reprieve. Shepard, at least, who has finished her exams and no longer has to bribe herself through hours of revision using junk food, can reap the full benefits of the work let-up.

“How about Saturday, again?”

“Saturday’s perfect,” Liara agrees, and Shepard grins, already excited. “But this time I’m making dinner.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes, Jane. What were your words, again..? That’s _just how it works_?”

“Something along those lines…”

“Well, then, I insist.”

Shepard is suddenly assaulted by a shuddering realisation. “So… where are we meeting?” she asks, hesitant, just in case she’s assumed wrong, but Liara does not disappoint her.

“It will be easier if you come to my home,” she says, in that delicate way that she uses when she is uncertain of how Shepard will react. “We’ll be quite alone here,” she adds on, with only a hint of a jibe at their previous experience. Shepard’s cheeks turn pink at the memory, and she wonders if that is an invitation for them to at least go as far as they had the last time they were at Shepard’s apartment.

“Noted,” she says, and tries to laugh through it, but her mouth is already dry at the memory of Liara straddling her lap, grinding into her… An entirely too familiar ache begins between her legs, and Shepard sighs at the promise of another restless night. _It’s too late in the year for cold showers_ , she warns it, but the throbbing persists.

“I’ll forward my address along in a message,” Liara tells her, a breathless quality to her voice that lets Shepard know that she isn’t the only one affected by the turn in the conversation. “I’ll expect you no later than seven.”

“I’ll be there,” Shepard promises, and they talk for a little longer before Liara cannot restrain a yawn, and Shepard tells her to get some sleep. “Goodnight,” she says, eyeing the door to her bathroom with mild reluctance. “Sleep well.”

“And you,” Liara offers, and then her voice deepens with promise. “No later than seven, Jane.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is so cliche I'm almost too embarrassed to post it. Self-indulgence, eh? It's killer.

When Saturday comes around, Shepard does not make the same mistake twice.

The night before, she loads a critical bundle of laundry into the clothes dryer in preparation for the day ahead. She stocks it with her jeans and khakis, and even a set of formal, wide-legged black trousers that, when paired with the right shirt, give her body a streamlined illusion. She’s been known to appreciate the effect, once in a while, and can’t help but imagine Liara’s expression upon seeing her in them.

When it comes to pulling the pile of clothes out of the dryer, however, Shepard can’t seem to grasp a sense of the outfits she had initially planned to wear.

She lays out a pair of jeans so old that the dye has almost completely bled out at the knees, and wonders what she was thinking. Another pair of jeans gets tossed on top of them, and then subjected to her critical glare. Perhaps she shouldn’t go with jeans at all, she muses. Would Liara expect her to dress up? Her eyes flicker towards her wardrobe at the thought, and the little black dress that peaks through; an impulse-buy that she hasn’t yet been able to talk herself into actually wearing.

But, no—surely not? It’s a home date. She doesn’t want to upstage her host.

(Then again, Shepard thinks, would that ever be possible? Liara could dine in flannel pyjamas and _still_ put her to shame.)

Besides, it’s been a while since Shepard has worn anything resembling a dress, and the thought of going bare-legged, now… She clenches her teeth and shifts her focus back to the pile of laundry on her bed with new determination. She plucks out a cream turtle-neck sweater and holds it up against her chest, pivoting in place to face her mirror.

The empty sleeves hang limp against her chest, but with her arms through them, the clingy material would show every curve of every muscle. She shifts a hand to the neck itself, holding it up to just beneath her chin, and then remembers what Liara had said the night she’d invited her over. _We’ll be quite alone_. She captures the corner of her upper lip between her teeth and lets the turtle-neck fall flat against the chest of the sweater, exposing her throat.

“That’s better,” she murmurs to herself, and then rolls the sweater up in her arms before tossing it back to the bed. “Easy access…”

With that thought in mind, she pushes her jeans aside and digs out a pair of brown-green not-really-khakis from the bottom of the bundle of clothes. The material is lighter than what she’d ideally like to be wearing in the current weather, but she thinks she can manage the short walk it will take her between vehicles on her way to Liara’s apartment.

She holds the trousers to her hips, where the material would cling if she were wearing them, and then fall heavily and loosely down her legs, exaggerating their length and hiding the strong muscles beneath. The material cinches again at the ankles with elasticated cuffs, and Shepard has a vague idea of how feminine she could look with a high pair of heels at the end of these khakis, but she quickly discards the image.

She’s going into new territory tonight – maybe in more ways than one – and she will steal comfort where she can get it. She sets the khakis aside for later, already mentally pairing them with a pair of black boots, and picks up a simple black sweater from the pile of laundry. She holds it up in front of her, examines the wide, loose collar that would expose her throat and enough of her chest to still be deemed relatively modest, and smiles.

Only after she has set the outfit aside does she realise just how long she’s spent deliberating over her choice. She no longer has the excuse of it being a while since her last date, considering the meal she prepared for herself and Liara only a few weeks ago. Perhaps it had been the comfort of her own home, she muses, that had led her to throwing on the closest pair of jeans and tank top that she could find. There had been _some_ thought in her choice for that night, but it pales in comparison to her selection for tonight’s outfit.

She realises, with a flush of embarrassment, that she wants to look _good_ for Liara – and not only that.

She wants Liara to see her and feel her heart tremble in her chest, like all those times Shepard’s heart has trembled and thumped at the first sight of Liara making her way down the History corridor on Monday mornings. She wants to send her dizzy with the same lust that assaults Shepard whenever she sees her, whenever she’s _near_ her.

She suddenly becomes aware, with a dull thud of alarm, that she wants to give Liara a reason to stay – to keep coming back.

It’s a quiet thought, and born entirely from her own insecurities, but now that she’s recognised it she can’t shut it up. It’s like suddenly seeing a brilliant new scar on the back of her hand, still angry and pink, drawing her attention every few seconds, imploring her to ask _how the fuck did I let that happen?_

It is worrying. It is irrational.

(Is she turning vain? But, no…)

Mainly, if Liara stuck with her for anything, Shepard doubts it would be her looks. Hell, if anything, they won’t work in her favour at all once Liara sees her mangled body naked…

She casts that thought aside quickly – slams a door shut inside her mind and blocks it off. She’s filled with the daunting mental image of having tugged lightly on the thread of one insecurity, and set in motion the complete release of a great ball of yarn. She quickly attempts to distract herself, gathering clean underwear in preparation for her shower, but each wall of thought is like a paper barrier, and that great yarn of insecurity is tearing through them, snowballing towards her, gaining momentum with every rotation.

If she lets it catch her, she won’t stand a chance.

In the shower, she turns the temperature of the water up to scalding, and burns away her thoughts.

 

Six thirty finds Shepard adding the finishing touches to her appearance.

She cleans off old, chipped black varnish and cuts her nails – just in case.

In the bathroom she brushes her teeth again and checks over her make-up. She had taken extra care with her eyeliner and has even bothered to apply a light covering of foundation. The mental image of her make-up rubbing off on Liara’s cheeks makes her doubt whether or not it was a good idea, but she has to admit that she polishes up rather well, all things considered.

With a last rinse of her mouth, she dries her hands and runs her fingers through her hair. She cannot remember the last time she got it cut, but it’s never been known to grow particularly fast. Still. She tugs at the could-be-bangs that fall in front of her face, and then blows them away. When they still end up in her eyes, she tucks them purposefully behind her ear and considers putting her hair up. Grabbing each loose strand in her fist, she pins her hair up behind her head and tilts from left to right, gauging the result.

When she knots a hairband into the bun, it falls a little flatter than she’d have liked, but it has the desired effect.

Finally, she adds a touch of lip butter to her pouting mouth and calls it a day.

Jack is there to greet her when she finally emerges from her bedroom, teetering around strangely in her boots and freshly laundered clothes as though she’s never worn them before. She’d added a few sprays of an expensive salarian perfume (a gift) for good measure, and now sniffs consciously at the air, wondering if she might have overdone it a little.

She gets her answer when Jack’s head emerges whiplash-quickly from the open fridge door. When she catches sight of Shepard, she laughs and leans against the fridge, effectively closing it. Her conspicuous once-over does little to settle Shepard’s nerves. She plucks at the end of her leather jacket and frowns at Jack, hoping it’ll steel her confidence somehow.

“Looking good, sugarpuff,” Jack drawls, and Shepard cringes in anticipation for an oncoming insult. “You headin’ out with Blue?”

“We’re staying at her place, actually. Date-night in. She’s cooking.”

“Right, right. So should I expect you to return _tonight_ , or…?”

“You gonna make sure I get back here safely?”

“You know it,” Jack grins. “If anyone gets the chance to kick the legendary Commander Shepard’s ass, I call dibs.”

“Good to know you care,” Shepard snorts. “But yeah, probably tonight.” With a final pat of her pockets to ensure that she has all of her necessities, Shepard shoots Jack a wink and makes for the door. She bundles up each loose nerve and stuffs them in her gut; if she can’t draw confidence from that, she can always fake it. “Still… don’t wait up.”

 

She arrives outside of Liara’s apartment building with ten minutes to spare.

While she’s hovering her omni-tooled hand over the skycar’s meter, she leans forward to get a better look at the building through the window. To Shepard’s untrained eye, the architecture resembles a silvery blob of cake icing, wide at the bottom and then narrowing out at the top into a roof that curves in on itself, almost like an antennae. A chocolate chip.

A buzz from the skycar’s console lets her know her fare has been paid, and the doors open automatically to grant her exit. Shepard steps outside and just about keeps from whistling. The sky is thick and overcast tonight, but light from the surrounding streetlamps bounces off the shell of the building, reflecting off windows and lighting up balconies that Shepard, so close beneath them, has to crane her neck at to get a better look.

Without having yet stepped into the building, Shepard doubts Liara would be able to afford it on her professor’s salary alone. She feels another niggling of insecurity – a common occurrence tonight – and can’t help the chagrined blush that heats her cheeks when she thinks of her own apartment building, in comparison.

 _I live in a shit hole_ , Shepard thinks, and blinks miserably up at the building.

Just outside of the building’s entrance is a small private garden area, decorated symmetrically with neat hedgerows and a pair of trees with blue leaves that she doubts are native to the planet. On her short walk towards the entrance, she notices another figure lurking in the gardens, sitting on the back of a bench with their feet on the seat. A shadow cast from the building saves their identity, but Shepard can see the glowing tip of a cigarette turning an angry orange with each inhalation.

She averts her gaze from the figure when she reaches the door, and skims her gaze along the metal grid on the wall. She finds the number to Liara’s apartment and quickly pushes the button, holding her finger to it until the buzzing ring is answered. A prickling at the back of her neck alerts Shepard to her actions being closely watched, and she keeps half of her attention focused on the heavy footsteps trailing up behind her even after Liara answers her call.

“Jane,” her voice sounds rich and welcome over the crackly intercom, and Shepard grins even as she tenses, falling into a partially defensive stance as quickly as she falls into most bad habits. “You’re early.”

“You made it very clear that there would be consequences if I was late.”

Liara’s laugh echoes over the intercom, and Shepard is sure that she hears a scoff from behind her, followed by the faint scent of nicotine. The overpowering smell of smoke increases and then washes over her as the figure from the gardens brushes past her side, touching the pressure pad on the door and instantly being granted access into the building.

Shepard spares them a quick glance, confirming the smoker as another asari, and then turns her attention back to the intercom before the door can close.

“Door’s open,” she tells Liara, “I’ll be up in a minute.”

The asari is waiting outside of an elevator when Shepard enters the building, radiating the smell of her recently finished cigarette. Shepard stands beside her, keeping a respectful distance, and is more than a little unnerved when she sees the asari giving her a critical once-over from her peripheral. She feels thoroughly sized-up by the time the elevator arrives; she lets the asari enter first and casts a doubtful look over her outfit before stepping in behind her.

Her eyes linger on the combat boots, and for a moment she really wishes she had dug out a pair of heals, instead.

Distracted, she goes to press the button for Liara’s floor, only to realise that it’s already been lit up. She casts the asari her first proper glance of the night, and the other woman stares unabashedly back. Her gaze isn’t taunting, but from the look of her alone Shepard can guess that she isn’t the kind of person to judge others by the clothes they wear.

Still, there’s challenge in her unwavering gaze, and Shepard feels compelled to meet it.

In the end, the elevator pings its arrival, and Shepard concedes the game. The asari lingers a step behind her once she leaves the elevator, and Shepard takes her incredulous smirk all the way to Liara’s door. She hits the pressure pad to signal her arrival, and has time to watch the asari pass her to unlock the door to the next apartment down.

She seems to hesitate before entering the apartment, however, and then blatantly pivots on the spot. Shepard spies her leaning against the door jam, and is just about to make a joke about robbing the building, when she hears the faint whoosh of an opening door. Before she even lays eyes on Liara, Shepard is greeted with the mouth-watering smell of cooked fish. She turns to Liara with a pleased little grin, and Liara beams back at her.

Before Shepard can get out a ‘hello’, Liara presses forward and steals a kiss. She’d meant it to be quick, just a peck on the lips, but her hands somehow find their way to Shepard’s cheeks and the kiss runs on and on. When she finally pulls back, Shepard is dazed and a little breathless. She squeezes her hands around Liara’s hips and attempts to sigh out a greeting.

“Hi,” Liara says back, but it comes out on a breathy laugh that runs away from her. “I’ve been wanting to do that for days,” she tells Shepard, her thumbs moving to Jane’s mouth to clean away the smudge of purple lipstick that she has left behind. “I’m glad you’re no longer sick.”

“Me too,” Shepard agrees, but when Liara moves in to kiss her again, she tilts her head back and clears her throat. Instead of explaining herself immediately, she brushes a quick kiss to Liara’s cheek and lingers with her mouth to her ear to whisper, “We have an audience.”

She feels Liara’s body tense against her and worries that she’s said exactly the wrong thing. Liara pulls away from her almost completely, her wide, startled eyes scanning the corridor. When they settle on the other asari, however, her body practically sags in relief. Her cheeks turn a shade of blue that has Shepard restraining a smirk, and she attempts to put a little more distance between their bodies.

“Oh,” she sighs, and raises a hand to greet her neighbour. “Good evening.” The asari nods back, her arms folded against her chest and a smile on her face. Liara’s wide eyes turn quickly back to Shepard; she takes her by the hand and as good as pulls her inside. “Don’t mind her, she’s a little… eccentric.” She leads Shepard into a dimly lit sitting area, and towards the illuminated kitchen. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Please.”

While Liara finds two wine glasses to fill, Shepard shrugs out of her leather jacket and casts the apartment an appreciative glance. The interior is no less luxurious than its outer shell, but Liara’s little touches are everywhere. Large, glass-encased plants sit in every corner of the room, lending a hint of colour to the mainly monochrome design. Other artefacts have been given the same cased treatment, and Shepard doesn’t have to be told to guess that they’re trophies, of a kind, from Liara’s past archaeological digs.

Where Shepard’s apartment looks cold and unlived in from the lack of decorations, it is the cool silver-white accents, and the blue under-lighting, that gives Liara’s apartment the feeling of being on some distant moon. It’s not an unwelcome atmosphere; Shepard still dreams of her childhood home, warm and orange and brilliant green, and it makes her ache worse than any pain her phantom limb can inflict on her.

Warm, lived-in houses have not been a comfort to Shepard for some time.

The apartment feels decidedly cool, even though the temperature is warm enough for Shepard to appreciate her choice in wearing lightweight trousers. It might feel clinical, Shepard thinks, if nearly every surface within the apartment wasn’t scattered with files of paper, books, or a datapad (and she has the distinct impression that Liara definitely _tidied_ before she invited her over). Evidence of Liara lies in every detail, as unavoidable as the asari’s presence in the room; she draws Shepard’s eye wherever she goes.

One more blatant detail does catch Shepard’s attention, however. Her body pivots around to better see the near-translucent, silvery wisps of curtain and the closed balcony doors that lie beyond them. From what she can see through the icy shimmer of the curtains, Liara’s balcony is green and overgrown, and Shepard can’t help but smile at the sight of it.

It reminds her of Liara’s office, often dimly lit, the musty smell of her books and coffee, and all those leaves poking out from unlikely places.

She turns back towards the kitchen at the sound of footsteps, and does not try to disguise her smile when she sees Liara approaching. A glass is passed into her hand, and Liara takes the jacket from her with quiet apology. She moves to drape it over the back of a dining room chair, and turns to look oddly at Shepard from over one shoulder.

“Why are you smiling?” she asks with a hint of both amusement and self-consciousness.

“Why shouldn't I be smiling?” Shepard snorts, and Liara turns to her with a shake of her head. “Your apartment’s really beautiful. Very… _you_.”

“Did you just call me beautiful?”

She bats a coy smile up at Shepard and slinks close enough to wrap her arm around Shepard’s waist. Their bodies fit together loosely, wine glasses held aloft and at a careful distance from each other, safe from chipping rims. Shepard laughs and leans in close enough to brush a quick kiss to Liara’s jaw.

“I didn’t,” she teases. “I’m much more obvious with my compliments.” She leans in again for good measure, presses a kiss to Liara’s lips that she makes a point of terminating before either of them can get distracted, and finally adds: “You’re beautiful,” smiling because she shouldn’t even have to say it. It’s as solid as fact and Shepard will gladly come to blows with anyone who dares to say otherwise.

When she leans back from the kiss, Shepard takes their closeness as an opportunity to really take in Liara’s outfit. She is wearing a loose-fitted sweater and a pair of three-quarter-length trousers that her bare feet poke out of. With her boots still on, the height difference makes itself overly apparent, though Liara seems too interested in Shepard’s own outfit to notice.

“I like what you’re wearing,” she murmurs, her tone verging dangerously close to surprised, and brushes her hand along the loose fabric covering Shepard’s thigh. She’d meant the gesture innocently enough, having given into instinct to test the smoothness of the material without thought, but as soon as she feels the deceptively hard muscles beneath the trousers, Liara’s blush returns. She retracts her hand and takes her first indulgent sip of wine, but Shepard’s smile only widens.

“Thank you.”

Dipping her head, Liara turns further into her sitting area and takes a step forward. “Dinner won’t be ready for a while,” she says, inviting Shepard into the dimly lit room. She thinks about taking a seat on a couch, but Shepard steps past her before she can move, making a quiet noise of surprise.

“I didn’t spot this earlier,” she murmurs, so quietly that Liara isn’t sure if she was meant to hear it, but she steps up beside Jane, anyway. “You play?”

“Only a little,” Liara confesses, “and very poorly. I’ve been meaning to pick it up, again, since I began teaching.” She turns a wry smile on Shepard. “I somehow thought I’d have more time for it.”

Shepard lets her fingers dance over a couple of white keys, and the high-pitched tinkling of them momentarily blocks out the sound of cooking coming from the kitchen. She moves her hand away again and bites her lip, smiling sheepishly across at Liara. “Play me something?”

“Oh, you don’t mean that. I’m severely out of practice.”

“I do mean it,” Shepard insists. “Please? It doesn’t have to be perfect; I won’t be able to tell.”

Liara holds her gaze for a moment longer before she concedes, though her smile is anything but reluctant. She hands her wine glass to Shepard with a pointed look, and then tucks herself onto the little stool. For a moment, all she does is stare at where her fingers lie on the piano, covering a spread of keys but not yet applying enough pressure to play them. Finally, she takes in a deep breath and then begins.

Shepard’s eyes follow her fingers, enraptured. She’s never had any talent with an instrument – never had the patience to learn – and it’s made her develop an inherent respect for anybody who has. Liara is no exception. Shepard steps around the stool to better see her face, the intent look there, the frown as she muddles a couple of notes and the melancholic melody gives a disturbing jolt before recovering.

As she plays, Liara’s embarrassment melts away; she even tilts her head, at one point, to smile up at Shepard. The song soon calls for her full attention, and Shepard holds her breath as the pace picks up, the tone of the music becoming lighter, anticipatory, and then cresting into something that, to Shepard, sounds like a nostalgic mix of hope and excitement. The image of a field of blooming flowers comes to mind, and she smiles as Liara settles into the melody, repeats it, humming along to the tune beneath her breath.

She finishes prematurely, purple-blue in the cheeks and apologising about having forgotten how the song is supposed to end. She draws her hands away from the piano, and Shepard almost whines in disappointment. Instead, she slips onto the stool by Liara’s side and passes her wine glass across, freeing one hand.

“Show me that melody again?” she asks, and Liara brings an uncertain hand to the keys.

“This one?” she asks once she’s played it, and Shepard quickly captures her hand – slips her own on top of Liara’s and hooks her fingers around her knuckles – before she can retreat again. “Jane?”

“Keep going.”

The piano stool is not large. Liara can feel Shepard against her from knee to shoulder in her effort to squeeze on, a burning warmth that she doesn’t know if she wants to escape from or fall into. They’re sitting so close that when she turns her head towards Shepard, she feels her breath on her cheek, and quickly turns away.

She begins to play again, Shepard’s hand warm on top of hers, gentle and coarse. She muddles a couple of keys a few times, caught in the unpredictable rhythm of her own heartbeat, but manages to catch up to the song. With one hand, she can only play the keys, and the melody rings out sharp like glass, bouncing off every surface in her apartment as though the rooms were empty.

Shepard watches Liara’s face as she plays, her gaze falling briefly to her pursed lips, and then down to the hand beneath hers. Liara’s knuckles brush the top of her palm every time she has to reach for a key, her fingers so soft where Shepard’s are rough, but for all their differences their hands are almost the same size. Liara’s fingers are long and slender, perfect for the instrument of her choice, with barely a blemish on them.

Compared to Shepard’s, Liara’s hands look ideal for modelling cosmetics and little bottles of perfume. Or instruments, Shepard thinks; if she saw a vid of Liara’s hands dancing over a piano, she might just fall in love. She lets the thought distract her for a little longer, and then rubs her thumb in the sensitive web of skin between Liara’s thumb and forefinger. The hand beneath hers jerks, the melody briefly faltering.

“I can’t play while you’re tickling me,” Liara whispers, and Shepard lifts her gaze to see her smirk. “Or was that your intention, hm? Are you becoming tired now?”

“Never.”

“It is becoming a little tedious.”

“Stop, if you like.”

Liara does stop, and makes some effort to release her hand. She reverses their hold, her fingers sliding along Shepard’s scarred knuckles. Her touch lingers there for a moment, tracing the silvery pattern, and then she turns Shepard’s hand over and looks so intent that, for a moment, Shepard assumes that she’s reading her palm.

Eventually, Liara lets out a soft sigh and mutters, “Goddess, even your hands are strong.” She squeezes her fingers around the captured palm as though expecting to find iron beneath. “It’s like you were crafted for the life you led; I almost feel sorry for anyone who might have come across the great Commander Shepard.”

She says it distractedly, softly, and the words sound so different than when Jack says them, but Shepard reacts to them as she always does. She shrugs her shoulders as though tossing the compliment straight off them. “Do I look that bad?” she huffs, and plucks at her sweater with the hand that’s still holding her wine glass. “I made an effort, and everything…”

“ _Jane_.”

“Liara.”

She’s smirking, and is a little disjointed when Liara looks up, revealing a startlingly earnest expression. “Do you miss it?” She blinks, tries to avert her gaze, but then forces herself to look Shepard in the eye. “I mean, if you could,” she gentles her voice, as though to give the words less impact, “would you return?”

For a moment, Shepard genuinely does not know how to answer.

Would she go back to that old life? Months ago, she’d have jumped at the opportunity – maybe even laughed in the face of anyone asking her for the answer to such an obvious question. Months ago, she was still a terrified mess of Where Do I Belong in the World and What Am I Without the Alliance. And now? Her eyes scan Liara’s face as though she’ll find the answer there. Can so much have changed, when nothing, really, has changed at all?

(Can Liara – and Jane makes herself acknowledge the asari, now, because she could not address this question without her, as unnerving as that is – can Liara change her perspective on her life so completely as to make her revaluate her purpose, her sense of being, her entire _self_?)

(And shouldn’t that _terrify_ her?)

“If I could,” she says when she thinks she has been quiet for too long, “I think…” She stops, swallows, and looks away from Liara’s bright, blue eyes, to the hand that is still holding her own. “I don’t know.” She feels that phantom pain, again, throbbing in time with her heartbeat, and shifts uncomfortably on the tiny piano stool, willing the ache away.

“It was my own fault that I lost the leg, you know?”

Liara looks surprised by what she deems a sudden shift in the conversation. “The varren bite?” When Shepard nods her head, her markings lift high above her eyes. “I thought that was just another one of your stories.”

“You would be surprised by how many of _my stories_ are actually true,” Shepard grins. “But, yeah. The bite. I know what you’re thinking – how could something so easy to treat result in me losing a leg, right?”

“I wasn’t…”

“It’s okay,” Shepard shrugs. “I ask myself the same thing every day. The truth is, I never _did_ treat it. We were on a garden planet at the time, stuck in some swamp, and then some caves. We weren’t expecting to be out there so long. A group of slavers had burrowed in and they were proving more difficult than expected to be dug back out again.” She shakes her head, dismissing the story, and is quiet for a moment longer as she thinks how to shorten it.

“Anyway,” she says, eventually, and goes on, not meeting Liara’s gaze, “ we're in some caves. The slavers release their varren, the varren attack, I get bit. We deal with the varren, I wrap myself up, we’re all good.” She does meet Liara’s gaze, now, giving the impression of urgency – of near-impatience – that Liara must understand. “I’ve had worse injuries. I’ve walked out of places half-dead before, I thought… I can handle a little bite. I wrapped it, I stopped the bleeding. That should have been enough.

“We were down there for days, though. Like we were stuck in some fucking stalemate; every time we advanced, so would they.”

She lets her gaze slip from Liara’s face, and an expression develops there, like a grainy photograph blooming in chemical solution, that makes Liara suddenly glad that she has not seen into Shepard’s mind. Shepard seems to notice that she’s ruined the mood, and she turns back to Liara with a small, not-quite-smile.

“It must have become infected before we left, I don't know. Then we trekked back through the swamp and I must have picked something up there – some scary parasitic bacteria, it was eating…” She sighs and shakes her head, not quite up to discussing that detail. “By the time I actually checked it out, it was… I was kind of terrified to even look at it. There were other things going on, you know? More important things. So I cleaned it up, slapped some medigel on, but…”

Her tale goes unfinished, but Liara’s overactive imagination quickly summarises its gruesome end. She shudders in her seat. After a brief silence, Shepard seems to remember why she began relaying the story in the first place, and takes a large sip of wine, almost finishing her glass.

“If I’d have been more careful, more focused, I wouldn’t have had to leave in the first place.”

It’s a thought she tells herself again and again, and each time it serves as a whip, cracking down on her exposed back, bleeding her dry. _Stupid_ , she thinks. _Stupid, stupid, stupid_. The hiss of anger returns again, pricks beneath her skin, goads her into grabbing a hold of it, letting it surface. But Shepard knows control, and despite how it might look to Liara ( _God, Liara_ , she thinks, _if only you knew what you’re getting into_ ), she will not let it ruin their evening.

She pushes the anger aside – she can do that, and it still amazes her that she has that ability. Liara beside her is like a balm to her overwhelming emotions, and it horrifies her to think of Liara like that, of the dependency she has on her, on a future that might never exist, but she cannot do anything _but_ think it.

She can admit it to herself, if no one else; if this thing with Liara has a future, then Shepard will not regret her discharge.

The thought comes to her like a timid animal, excitable and dangerous, and quickly skips away again. Shepard lets it go – lets herself return to the moment. She squeezes Liara’s hand in hers and grounds herself here, in the moment. “I miss it,” she tells Liara, eventually, “I still miss it. I think I always will.” She turns her hand over in Liara’s and admires the pattern that their fingers create when she twines them together. “I don’t think I want to go back.”

And Liara, so patient as to have sat through the entire, agonising story of Shepard’s injury, still practically shaking with anticipation, takes a deep breath and lets herself hope like she never has before. She brushes her thumb along Shepard’s hand and then raises the both of them, bringing them towards her mouth. She presses a lingering kiss to Shepard’s scarred knuckles and whispers, “I would miss you terribly if you did.”

“I know,” Shepard returns.

 _I don’t think I could leave you behind_ , she thinks, but before she can embarrass herself by speaking the words aloud, something sharp and loud begins ringing in the kitchen, and Liara jolts away.

“Oh, it’s ready!”

She moves away quickly in fear of their dinner burning, but Shepard lingers a while by the piano. She stares at the keys for a moment, at her hand where Liara had kissed her. Her pulse feels strange inside her own body; when she stands, her weight shifts out of balance. The planet has turned into that thundering ball of yarn, racing away beneath her feet, carrying her into something delicate and uncertain and inevitable.

She makes her way silently towards the kitchen and wonders if Liara, too, can feel the world desperately struggling to recover its axis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone interested, I've been listening to so much Brian Crain while writing this fic. I imagine Liara's little piano tune would sound something like his 'Dream of Flying'. Would definitely recommend a listen. :) Again, thank you so much for all of the feedback! It means A Lot! 
> 
> (Also, we're not quite done with Saturday yet. The next chapter will pick up roughly where this one left off.)


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I have a couple of warnings to hash out before anyone reads on. This chapter delves a little further into Shepard’s PTSD. I’ve added the appropriate trigger warning tags for anxiety and panic attacks. It’s really not that rough (when I say ‘delves’ I mean ‘skims the surface of’) but if you think it will make you uncomfortable and you still want to read on, let me know and I’ll place a couple of markers in the middle of the fic to let you know which section to skip. Doing this might mean missing out on dialogue/etc but I can also offer a handy summary of the skipped section, if you so wish it.
> 
> Also, smutty things. Same as above: if you want markers put in so that you can skip the squicky bits, I’m happy to add ‘em in. Please don’t be afraid to ask!

Dinner makes it to the table, unscathed, and Shepard’s dizzy spell recedes once she’s seated.

Liara takes the seat to her left, her bare foot brushing occasionally against Shepard’s trousers. The third time it happens, Shepard realises that it isn’t by accident, and she almost chokes on a forkful of potatoes with her laughter (Liara tries to hide her smile behind a sip of wine, but it remains for the rest of the meal, and so does her foot, tucked gently above Shepard’s boot).

They keep the conversation light in comparison to their earlier discussion, but all talking comes to a sudden stop when a clap of thunder sounds above the apartment. Shepard’s grip on her utensils tightens. Rain follows not soon after, and a flash of lightning strikes through the silvery balcony curtains, momentarily lighting up the room.

It draws a half-shadow across Liara’s face, but she turns too slowly to catch the display, and remains vigilant in case another flash comes. “It’ll pass soon,” she tells Shepard, still watching the balcony doors. A small smile turns at the corners of her mouth. “Listen to it!” She releases her cutlery and tucks her hands beneath her chin, elbows on the table, utterly distracted. “I grew up in Northern Thessia, did you know? It always rained like this, no matter the season. I used to despise it.”

She turns an impish grin on Shepard, but it soon softens.

“And then my work took me to all of these remote dig sites; some places so inhospitable that the only rain, when it _did_ rain, was toxic. In some places, the air was so dry that it felt as though I were breathing sand. To think, I used to take vacations to hot, arid climates to escape the dreary weather back home.”

“You missed it?” Shepard asks, setting her own utensils down on her empty plate. Her heartbeat begins to slow again; she focuses on Liara, on keeping her talking.

“Terribly,” Liara nods, oblivious to Shepard’s discomfort. “I realised what I was taking for granted. Besides,” and that impish smile returns, her fingers sliding around her wine glass, cradling the bell of it in her palm, “it makes digging through mud much easier.”

Shepard manages a laugh at that. “Oh, really?” The tightness in her chest eases.

“Mm,” Liara takes a delicate sip from her wine glass, “really. I grew up in a large estate with a very large garden. I always knew the best areas to excavate, far away from the house and any of the pathways. My mother was never very surprised when I informed her that I was going to devote my life to archaeology.”

“Did you ever find anything interesting?”

“Rocks, mainly,” Liara smirks. “Pretty ones, actually. Bulbs, once, though we replanted those together.”

A wistful look comes over her face, and Shepard grins at the mental image of a young Liara T’Soni, mud-covered, holding out her hands to one horrified Matriarch Benezia: ‘ _Look, mother, I unearthed a rock!_ ’ She lets out a laugh that draws Liara out of her thoughts and tells her, “That’s cute.” Liara rolls her eyes. “No, I mean it. That’s adorable.”

“You’re mocking me, again.”

“I never mock you.”

“And you’re a terrible liar.” Liara takes another sip from her wine glass and is almost surprised when the last dregs of it slide past her lips. She sets the glass down again, empty, and her attention shifts back towards the balcony. “My point being,” she says, with emphasis, “it was the terrible weather of this lovely city that made up my mind to move here – to accept the position at the university, I mean.”

“You decided to move here because of the _rain_?”

Liara turns quickly back to Shepard, her expression a mixture of amusement and incredulity. _Of course_ , it says to Shepard. Or perhaps, _of course_ not _, you idiot_ , but Liara is grinning either way. “I… had a feeling,” she says, and another expression blossoms to the surface of her face, her eyes wide and gut-wrenchingly blue. “I was viewing the apartment for the third time. It was raining so hard and I tracked mud all through the building, it was horribly embarrassing. The previous two times I’d been, the weather had been beautiful; the estate agent even apologised on its behalf. As soon as I got up here, however, I could hear the rain bouncing down on the balcony, and… well, something just clicked.”

She looks a little desperately at Shepard, eyes crinkling in their corners as though expecting to be laughed at again. “Do you ever just get that feeling?” she asks. “When the pieces just seem to fall perfectly into place?” After a brief pause, Shepard realises that she expects an answer, and she quickly nods her head. Liara fidgets with the flute of her wine glass, averting her gaze. “Well… that is what happened.”

“It reminded you of home,” Shepard surmises, and Liara meets her gaze again, her smile small and self-deprecating. Shepard nudges her foot beneath the table. “Don’t give me that look, I’m not gonna judge you.”

“You’re very kind,” Liara scoffs, but her smile widens, if only ever so slightly. “And yes, it did, but… other things, also.” That wistful look returns, but before she can elaborate another flash of lightning tears through the room, and Liara sighs at having missed the display yet again.

Another clap of thunder quakes overhead, closer this time and much louder, and Shepard jumps in her seat. But, it’s okay. _It’s okay_ , she tells herself. _This is what therapy was for. Paid a goddamn fortune for that shit, too, so put it to good use. You’re okay. You are okay._ She takes a too-large sip of wine and swallows a little too eagerly. It tries to choke her on the way down, and her coughing and spluttering draws Liara’s attention back to her. She turns red in the face and attempts to explain that she’s fine, don’t worry, but Liara has already shifted out of her seat, has one hand on her back and is patting encouragingly.

“Do you want some water?” Liara asks once Shepard can breathe again, but all she gets in return is a quick head shake. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah, no,” Shepard clears her throat again, but her voice remains hoarse, “no water, I’m good. Just swallowed too quickly – went down the wrong hole.”

Liara nods uncertainly, and the damned thunder claps again. This time, she has one hand on Shepard’s shoulder, still, and _feels_ the way her muscles tense in order to keep herself in her seat. It dawns on her, suddenly, that her tirade about the weather was incredibly insensitive. Her face pales.

“You don’t like the thunder.”

“What? _No_ —”

“Jane—”

“Really, I’m—”

“Goddess, you’re trembling.” Liara shifts so close that Shepard thinks, for a moment, she might actually sit in her lap. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think.”

“Liara,” she takes a hold of her hand, squeezing gently to capture her attention, “you can’t control the weather. Really, I’m okay, it just… it made me jump. Loud noises, you know?” Liara chews on her bottom lip, but nods her head in as much understanding as she can possibly carry. “It’s no big deal. I have to get used to it.”

“We can move away from here,” Liara says, and then blushes. “I mean, move rooms. It’s always louder in here – the balcony.”

“No, no—”

“We’ve finished dinner,” Liara insists. “Please, I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

“I’m not, honestly I’m not.”

Liara sends her a look that says she’s literally never been less convincing, and she lets out a quiet sigh, glancing briefly towards the balcony doors. She should have foreseen this happening. She should have checked the weather reports, at the very least. She weighs up her options: remain in the sitting area with Liara and potentially ruin the entire evening with a panic attack, or give into a _weakness_ and hide away from a fucking thunderstorm.

She must not be hiding her feelings very well, Shepard surmises, because Liara instantly perches precariously against the table and places her free hand on her cheek. Her thumb rubs a soothing trail along her cheekbone, her eyes wide and patient and so non-judgemental that Shepard actually has to look away from them for a moment.

It would be a strain to fight off the panic, but she could probably do it. She has done it before. She looks again to Liara and thinks, _she should not have to see that_. It’s the tightness in her chest that makes up her mind for her, the sudden blurring in the edges of her peripheral – a warning. If she doesn’t find a nice bit of floor to curl up on soon, she’ll begin hyperventilating.

“I’m sorry,” she winces, and Liara shakes her head almost insistently.

“Please, don’t be.” She shifts away from the table and uses their clasped hands to guide Shepard out of her seat. “Come with me.”

Shepard lets herself be led through the apartment, her vision whiting. She brings her free hand to her eyes and attempts to rub the clarity back into them. She feels instant relief when they enter a cooler, darker room, and only vaguely registers it as a bedroom when Liara deposits her on the edge of something soft and plush while she turns on a bedside lamp.

The new light does not help. Shepard curls into herself, bracing her feet a short width apart and hanging her head in her hands between them. She hides her face there, even as she feels it getting hot and red, and if her make-up has begun to run she will never bother to wear it again, she swears to God…

A dip in the mattress to her right lets her know that Liara is nearby, and crushing embarrassment steals her breath for a moment, before a warm, soothing hand begins rubbing circles over her back. She is too warm. She does not want Liara to see her like this, and yet… Her tense shoulders relax a little, a sigh peels out against her palms. Liara takes the encouragement and runs with it – shifts her attention to Shepard’s shoulders, her upper arms, as though she can work the anxiety out of her.

It’s not that easy. Shepard doubts it ever will be, but it’s _easier_ , and that’s more than she was ever hoping for. She focuses through the strained, tight feeling surrounding her chest and follows the motions of Liara’s hands. A few minutes of this has her breathing easier, the panic attack abating before it can develop any real substance, and she slides her hands up to her forehead so that she can blink down at the carpeted floor.

Her vision has returned to its usual clarity, she discovers, and another slab of anxiety is chipped away at the confirmation that the episode is over. Her breathing is still uneven, and tears prick in her eyes. She brings her fingers to them, swiping carefully at the places where she assumes her eyeliner could have smudged, attempting to blindly neaten things up again.

Liara shifts beside her. She keeps a hand on Shepard’s shoulder for balance and dips forward, pressing a lipsticked kiss to Shepard’s throat. Her lips linger there for a moment, her breath warm but soothing against Shepard’s skin, and then she slides down to the floor in front of her. The position allows Shepard to retain her stance while also having a clear visual of Liara’s long fingers tugging at the laces in her boots.

She opens her mouth to ask what she’s doing, but a weary sigh comes out, instead. Liara eases her left foot out of the boot first, sets it aside, and then massages her shin for good measure. She is cautious when she begins with the next, easing it away gently as though she expects it will hurt, and Shepard wonders vaguely just how much research Liara has done, concerning her. She does not repeat the shin massage on the prosthesis, and Shepard is grateful.

Still squatting by her feet, Liara looks up into Shepard’s uncovered face and rubs her knee. Shepard opens her mouth to thank her. Instead:

“Fuck…” She closes her eyes and Liara’s grip on her knee tightens. “I’m sorry. This is super embarrassing.”

Liara eases herself up from the floor, returning to her position on the bed. “You’re not the first person to experience panic attacks.”

Shepard lifts her head, finally, her expression strained. “But on a _date_? God…”

“How do you usually cope with them?”

“Honestly, it’s just a case of waiting them out. Unless I’m… out somewhere, you know? Around people.” She rubs at her nose and sighs once more before finally sitting up straight. “I can stop them, sometimes. That what just happened? That was nothing.”

“I believe it.” Shepard turns to her in surprise. “I mean to say that I’ve experienced them before.” Another block of anxiety chips away, and Shepard sinks that bit further into the bed. It is soft beneath her; she has the sudden urge to lie down, let it swallow her up. “But it still looked uncomfortable. Would you like anything? Some water?”

“No,” Shepard shakes her head. “But, thank you.”

A ripple of thunder sounds again, quieter now, muffled, and Liara’s brow creases in concern. She casts a quick glance around her bedroom and then says, “I can put some music on?” Before she can move, however, Shepard captures her hand. “Quiet music?” Liara offers even as she slips her fingers through Shepard’s.

“Can we just sit here for a moment?” Shepard whispers, biting down on her bottom lip, but her worry is for nought. Liara quickly nods her head. “That doesn’t happen often – thunderstorms, I mean. It just took me by surprise. I usually know they’re coming before they hit.” She brushes her thumb along Liara’s knuckles and listens to the muffled sounds of the storm beating against the building.

Beside her, Liara sits quiet and patient. At one point, she shifts closer and lays her head against Shepard’s shoulder. They wait out the storm until the thunder passes and lightning no longer flashes through the bedroom curtains – until all that is left is the wash of rain against the window, quick and soft, and Shepard realises how long they’ve simply been sitting there, in silence.

She wonders if anyone else could make the moment so comfortable, and doubts it.

A sigh from Shepard seems to wake Liara up again. She nuzzles into the shoulder that she’s been leaning against and then lifts her head, taking in a deep breath. She turns briefly towards the window, the rain there still pitter-pattering, and then shifts her focus to Jane. She rubs a hand against her relaxed back and smiles like how Shepard imagines she would smile first thing in the morning. It is warm and sunshine-bright… and horribly contagious.

“I am sor—”

Liara presses a hand to her mouth before she can finish. “Stop apologising.” Shepard mumbles something against her fingers, but Liara doesn’t let up yet. “Really, Jane. You don’t owe me any of that. These things happen and we can’t always control them. That’s okay. I’m… actually quite impressed that you were able to stop it.” A small frown dips at her brow. She slowly eases her fingers away from Shepard’s mouth. “I’ve never managed to before.”

“Well, you know,” Shepard huffs, wetting her lips. “Got a reputation to uphold.”

“I… I hope I helped, though, and I don’t expect you to be able to do that every time, of course, but…” She trails off, takes a breath, and quickly rearranges her thoughts. “But if I _can_ help, I’d be happy to, although I’m not sure what I can—”

“You helped,” Shepard quickly offers, nudging their shoulders together. “I never usually… I mean, Jack sometimes… but she’s _Jack_ , and I’m grateful, but… you know? This was…” She sighs and rubs her eyes again, mindful of her make-up. “I appreciate this a lot. I haven’t completely freaked you out, have I?”

“Not at all. Are you feeling okay?”

“Much better. Actually, could I get some water, please?”

“Of course.” Liara pushes herself up before Shepard can offer to go herself. “Wait here.”

She slips out of the room and Shepard shifts her hands behind her back, leaning her weight on them. She lets her head fall back, closes her eyes, and takes a deep breath before orienting herself within the room again. It is larger than her own bedroom, with built-in wardrobes and bookcases. If Shepard were feeling any stronger, she’d investigate. As it is, she remains sitting.

Clues to Liara’s existence sit everywhere, much like the rest of the apartment. There is no less clutter on her desk than on the other surfaces within the sitting-dining-kitchen area, and it doesn’t surprise Shepard one bit. Vaguely, she wonders if Liara ever actually stops working.

On the bureau in front of her window, a photograph of Liara and another, taller asari sits, placed proudly and perfectly on display. Shepard thinks about getting close enough to properly see it, but before she can move the bedroom door whooshes open again. Liara hands her a glass of water and she thanks her and takes a large sip. Liara returns to the bed beside her, curling one leg up on the mattress and holding it in place with both hands.

Shepard attempts to mirror her position once she’s finished drinking. She sets the glass down by her boots and makes a mental note not to kick it over. She has the distinct feeling of having just ruined a set of important plans, and her stomach clenches uncomfortably, even if the rest of her body feels decidedly better. “What would you like to do now?” she asks Liara, who fiddles with the hem of her trouser leg.

“Well,” she says after a thoughtful pause, “you could tell me that you are still feeling uncomfortable and insist that I _distract you_ …” She blinks boldly up at Shepard, who feels something warm and pleasant shiver through her body. After a brief hesitation, the boldness in her gaze cracks into concern. “Or are you actually feeling uncomfortable? We could put on a vid, or if you’d like to end the evening here, I won’t—”

“I don’t,” Shepard quickly interrupts. “Unless you do? I know this is—”

“No, no,” quickly, with a dismissive wave of her hand. “You’re very welcome to stay for longer.”

“I’d like to,” Shepard says, and Liara nods, thankful that they have managed, at least, to establish that much. Shepard leans closer towards her on her hand, curling her leg further up the bed until it brushes against Liara’s own. “What was that you said? About a distraction?”

“Mm.” Liara dips her head in a nod, but keeps her eyes subtly averted as she slides a hand forward, over her own leg and onto Shepard’s. She runs a circuit from mid-thigh to knee, fingers curling with a barely-there pressure, and Shepard suddenly struggles to swallow past her dry, dry mouth. “A _distraction_.”

“Yes,” Shepard says quickly, almost sighs it out like a plea, and the corners of Liara’s lips flicker upwards. “I definitely need a distraction…”

She leans forward with the words and Liara meets her halfway, pressing her smiling mouth to Shepard’s. It’s a deep kiss – smooth and slow like they have all the time in the world. When so many of their intimate moments have happened in a rush, conscious of how much time they can appropriately spend locked within Liara’s office, Shepard definitely appreciates the languid pace that Liara sets for them.

Still, even the ever so patient Dr. T’Soni has her limits.

She pulls back when breathing through her nose is becoming a problem, and takes a deep, gulping breath. Shepard can’t help her smug look, though Liara is too distracted by the hint of a flush in her cheeks to comment. “You look very beautiful tonight,” she says, one hand on Shepard’s cheek and teasing a thumb along the faintly protruding bone there.

“You look really great, like, all the time,” Shepard mumbles, breathing almost as hard as Liara herself.

“Oh, I didn’t mean—not that you don’t _always_ look very attractive.” Her wide eyes blink up to Shepard’s, but all she receives in response is a breathy laugh. Seeing that no harm has been done, she relaxes, her cheeks burning a deeper shade of blue. She removes her hand and places it, instead, on Shepard’s knee, rubbing her fingers over her trousers. “I appreciate these a lot,” she murmurs quietly. “I… wish we could go out somewhere. Together. A meal, or…”

Shepard lays her own hand over Liara’s when she trails off. She gives her fingers a squeeze and says, “One day,” like a promise. “I mean, if you can wait until the end of the year.”

Instead of looking excited by the prospect, Liara’s face falls. “You don’t plan on studying History next year?”

“No, I do. But what’s the chance you’ll be assigned to my class again?”

“There’s _always_ a chance.” Liara shakes her head. “With the luck we’ve had already, who’s to say I won’t be?”

“That’s very pessimistic,” Shepard tells her, and leans in to steal a kiss before the discussion can continue through dangerous territory. She almost succeeds in distracting Liara completely when she slides her tongue past her lips. Liara’s arms slide around her shoulders, urging her closer, and then down, pulling Shepard on top of her, Liara pressed between her and the mattress.

She almost succeeds in distracting _herself_. Liara is soft and warm beneath her, and gently moaning into her mouth when their hips align, legs comfortably tangling. She presses into Liara out of instinct, more than anything, and gasps against her mouth when Liara’s thigh shifts perfectly between her own.

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing, Jane,” Liara hums beneath her, but that telling smile is on her face, again. “We will have to talk about this,” she tries, but Shepard’s lips move down to her throat, undeterred, “eventually… _Goddess_.”

“Really?”

“Mmhm.” Shepard’s teeth graze the underside of her jaw, her lips latching on to that wonderfully sensitive spot that makes Liara writhe against her. “Yes! Y-yes, we will… oh, Jane.”

“Not now, though, right?”

“No!” Liara’s hands quickly fill her hair, tugging it out of its bun. She presses her greedily forward, elongating her neck to give her better access, and Shepard grins even as she continues as implored. “Please don’t stop.”

And so Shepard doesn’t.

She trails kisses along Liara’s neck and her exposed collarbone, always returning to _that one spot_ just beneath her jaw, until Liara presses both hands into her eyes. Sensing the movement, Shepard lifts her head, releasing Liara’s throat with a wet pop. She pushes more of her weight onto her elbows and eases closer, fingers trailing along Liara’s forearms until she uncovers her face.

“Are you okay?” Shepard asks, and supposes she has her answer when Liara blinks up at her, eyes wide and faintly blackened. “Ah…”

“I’m okay,” Liara breathes, her hips shifting against Shepard, desperate to keep her thigh in an accessible position. She blushes when she realises what she’s doing, and her straining body falls back to the bed. She captures her swollen bottom lip between her teeth. Meeting Shepard’s gaze sends another rush through her, has her blush deepening. “Jane, I… don’t want to stop.”

For a moment, Shepard can only stare at her. “You don’t?”

Liara shakes her head.

“I…” she closes her eyes, “I don’t think I’m ready to…” and opens them again when she feels a hand cup her cheek. The fingers are strong and coarse, and she turns into them, desperate to feel those rough palms elsewhere. “When we make love, Jane, I want to join with you properly – completely.”

She does not falter around the words, although Jane’s entire body suddenly becomes unbearably warm. She isn’t sure if she wants to shed some layers or back the fuck away. _Make love_. Because of course Liara wouldn’t give any less. Probably, it’s just her translator picking up the most polite way of putting it. She shouldn’t read too much into the words. She does it, anyway.

When she has recovered, Shepard pushes, “You mean, you want to meld, right?” Liara nods silently beneath her, giving Shepard a moment to process that, to find her feelings on the matter. “But not yet?”

“Not yet,” Liara whispers, but her unspoken objective rings loud and clear through Shepard’s mind. _Soon_.

“Okay,” eventually, on a breath. “Okay,” with more certainty.

“Are you sure?” Liara brings a hand up to her shoulder, rubbing the muscles that meet the back of her neck. It is not dissimilar to how she eased Shepard’s anxiety away earlier in the night, and Shepard reacts much the same. She melts further into the warm body beneath hers and nods her head. “I really don’t want to rush this, but I’m…” She falters for a moment and her hips press, and press, and press up into Shepard’s. “This is _excruciating_.”

“Y-yeah,” Shepard gasps, and puts a slither of distance between their hips, much to Liara’s pouting disappointment. “I think I can help with that. If you’ll let me?”

She lays one hand flat on Liara’s stomach, rubbing the soft curve of her through her sweater, and Liara’s breath audibly hitches as Shepard’s intentions become clear. “Yes,” she says without hesitation, and bites down on her bottom lip again. “Please.” Shepard smiles and leans closer, presses a kiss to her mouth and steals that lip from Liara, grazing her teeth around it until Liara lets out a quivering sigh against her mouth.

Shepard does not rush it.

After it took them such a long time to progress to this stage, Shepard feels she’d be doing a disservice to Liara if she didn’t drag this moment out for as long as she reasonably could. She kisses Liara to the point of distraction, until her curling body is trembling beneath her own. Slowly, the hand she’s kept on Liara’s stomach journeys further north, to the hint of ribs that presses up through the sweater Liara is wearing.

She keeps her hand there for a moment longer and her hesitation is noticed.

Beneath her, Liara understands her intentions and attempts to curl into her hold, drawing her nearer. It’s all the encouragement Shepard needs to resume her journey and take Liara’s breast in her hand. It is soft and firm, larger than Shepard’s own. She cups her fingers around it and gently squeezes until Liara gasps against her mouth.

Pleased with the reaction, Shepard repeats it, drawing the pleasure out of Liara until she’s mewling. A slight shift of her thumb piques Shepard’s curiosity enough to make her pause. She pulls back from Liara’s mouth and repeats the motion. Beneath her thumb, Liara’s nipple pebbles, and Shepard suddenly realises that she’s wearing nothing underneath her sweater. Her jaw gapes, but Liara only sighs with impatience, arching her chest up in encouragement for Shepard to continue.

“Come back,” she whispers, a hint of a smile at her lips. Her cheeks flush purple when she realises what understanding Shepard has just come to, and some of that earlier impatience ebbs away. Her blackening eyes search Shepard’s face with a pinch of curiosity. She pushes back the escaped hair from her face, and studies Shepard’s open expression. “Don’t stop.”

Shepard’s eyes slip up from her hand, to the blue-black of Liara’s own. She has the sudden urge to slip her hand beneath Liara’s sweater, to feel for herself how bare she is beneath it, how soft and warm, but she refuses to rush this. Liara had made her own intentions clear, and Shepard will not ruin things, now, when she has her so close, trembling against her.

Holding Liara’s gaze, she resumes her lazy exploration of her breast. Her soft, indulgent movements turn firm, purposeful, and Liara’s eyes close with a deep sigh, her body melting into the mattress. Shepard works her up until she knows exactly how much pressure to exert, when to tease her nipple and when to offer the faintest brush of her thumb across the stiff peak. She presses her mouth to Liara’s throat in kiss after kiss, and sighs along to each plaintive moan that Liara grants her.

Only when Liara is desperate and wriggling beneath her, grinding against Shepard’s thigh and tugging at her hair, does Shepard lower her attention from Liara’s breasts. She presses the curve of her stomach, again, and shifts on the bed to better accommodate a hand between Liara’s thighs. Even through her trousers, Liara is hot and throbbing, and Shepard shudders at the feel of her.

A whimper steals its way past Liara’s lips. She retracts her hands from Shepard and props herself up on both elbows, looking down at where Shepard has her, cupped in the palm of her hand. She cannot help but grind into her fingers, eyes slipping closed, and a noise so far from innocent leaves her mouth that even Shepard blushes at the sound of it.

When those fingers retract, Liara’s eyes shoot open. She almost whimpers again, but then she sees Shepard’s fingers tugging at the button keeping her trousers up. She lifts her gaze to Jane’s, sees her staring back, and nods her head. “Is this okay?” Shepard asks, still, as the button pops free and she begins to slide down the zipper.

“Yes,” Liara can only breathe it out, sinking back to the bed as the material around her hips loosens, “yes, yes.”

When Shepard’s hand slips inside, she curls her fingers into the bedsheets and closes her eyes. She feels Shepard’s exploration, slow, near-hesitant, the tips of two fingers sliding over where she pulses and swells. And then lower, until Shepard moans so quietly that it’s almost just a sigh, her fingers pressing, pressing, and Liara realises that she’s already wet through her underwear – soaked, if Shepard’s newfound focus is anything to go by.

The underwear does not remain between them for long. Without further prompt, Shepard slips her fingers inside, seeking out that warm, wet place again, and pressing into her. The angle could be improved by the removal of her trousers, but Liara can hardly think to help herself, not when Shepard is _inside_ her, digits curling, the base of her palm finding the swollen button of her clit and _pressing_. She releases a shuddery sigh and grips at Shepard’s hips.

“More, please,” she begs, still so polite, and Shepard slips another finger inside, begins moving with some purpose, and watches as Liara unravels in her arms.

It is not long before Liara is fluttering around her fingers, and Shepard can hardly stand it, barely realises what she’s doing when she shifts with Liara’s thigh between her own and begins to move with her. Liara recognises the purpose in her movements before Shepard herself does, and the hold on her hips becomes more insistent, dragging her along, Liara’s thigh pressing up and into.

(“Is this enough?” Liara asks, and Shepard stammers back: “ _Y-yeah_ …”)

Their movements become frantic, Shepard desperate for the friction of Liara’s thigh, and Liara desperate to help her along. Her hands slip around to Shepard’s backside, palming her ass, pulling her further and closer, quickening her thrusts. She feels the pique of her climax nearing and wraps a tingling leg around Shepard’s hip, needing her nearness, the warmth of her, even as sweat pricks across her skin.

“Jane…”

“ _Fuck_.”

In an effort to draw Shepard closer, Liara releases one hand from her ass and finds her breast, instead. Shepard presses their mouths together and groans, but it is the sharp, almost painful, and utterly unexpected way that Liara’s pinches her nipple that sends her tumbling into her orgasm. She gasps against Liara’s mouth and almost groans at the unfairness of the underhand trick. She pulls back from Liara’s lips and almost falls into the near-sheer blackness of her eyes as her body clenches and shakes.

Feeling Jane shudder and jerk above her pushes Liara into her own climax, and she clenches hard around Shepard’s fingers, crying out. A growing pressure in her temples urges her to reach out, to take Shepard whole, twine their minds together and share the moment, but Liara has grown more accustomed to restraining her urges in these past few months, and it is easy to ignore, however uncomfortable.

She lets her climax ebb out from insistent to indulgent, still twitching around Shepard’s fingers. Liara can enjoy them even after she has ceased trembling, and shifts her hips a few times, stealing whatever last dregs of pleasure that she can. Shepard’s palm wedged against her overstimulated clit soon becomes a cause for discomfort, however, and her wriggling does not last.

Apparently sharing her experience, Shepard eases further back, gaining leverage from her knees. The wide, open look in her face eases into a lazy smile, and she leans down to kiss Liara, open-mouthed and languid, before she eases back, eases out of her, and reclines by Liara’s side.

Liara stares up at her ceiling and waits until she can breathe again. She casts a look down her body, to her gaping trousers, and feels another pulse of pleasure shudder through her. Turning to Shepard, she finds her in a much similar state, and it draws a breathy, unexpected laugh from Liara’s lips. Shepard startles at the noise, but grins all the same, showing her teeth. She lifts her hand up from the bed, studying her fingers with some amazement, as if unbelieving of where they have just been, and Liara nearly balks at just how wet they are.

She curls into Shepard’s body with a dull noise of embarrassment, and buries her face in her neck. Shepard is the first to laugh, this time, lowering her hand and hooking it around Liara’s thigh, drawing her leg comfortably across her own hips and holding it there. After a moment, she tries to lift her head to see Liara, but the other woman is burrowed firmly against her throat. Shepard laughs again.

“You can’t be embarrassed, now,” she teases her, prodding at Liara’s captured leg. “It’s a little late for that, isn’t it?”

Liara grumbles something into her neck. When she lifts her head, she is still purple-blue in the cheeks, but the darkness in her eyes has almost completely faded. “I’m not embarrassed,” she pouts, and presses a kiss to Shepard’s jaw before settling more comfortably with her head on Shepard’s chest. After a moment, she sighs again and allows her eyes to close. “That was wonderful, Jane.”

Shepard’s heart skips against Liara’s cheek. “Ditto.”

“Hm?” She lets out a yawn and says, “I could just fall asleep.” Perhaps it’s the orgasm, she thinks, that fills her with the sudden urge to confess to all of her secrets. “That’s all I want, sometimes. I liked this – I really did like this a lot, Jane – but sometimes all I can think about is you lying here beside me in bed. What you look like when you sleep.” She holds her breath for a few seconds. “That came out a lot more sinister than I intended.”

Shepard’s huffing laughter has her bobbing up and down on her chest.

“But, I’m serious,” Liara insists, and places one hand against Shepard’s chest so that she can comfortably raise her head. “Isn’t that strange? By the end of most weeks, all I can think about is you sleeping in this big beside me. Nothing else. We don’t even have to be touching.”

Shepard smiles up at her, but Liara does not miss the way her heartbeat suddenly piques. A tightness around Shepard’s eyes tells her that it is not a happy acceleration, but an anxious one, and she bites her bottom lip. For a moment, all Shepard does is stare up at her, expecting a question – an _offer_ – that Liara suddenly realises would almost certainly be refused. It sends a panicked jolt through her own chest, but Shepard is still here beneath her, her eyes wide and imploring, and Liara has taken a lot of trust from her tonight. She does not need to ask for more.

She lowers her head back to Shepard’s chest and presses a lingering kiss above her heart. If she were wearing any other shade of material, it would leave a purple, lipsticked stain. She says no more on the subject, focuses instead on her fingers tracing along Shepard’s arm, and her patience earns her an answer.

“I think about that, too.”

Liara fights the urge to lift her head, again. She trails her fingers up to Shepard’s collarbones and rests her palm there, fingers tracing a patch of soft skin where her pulse beats through.

“When we’re speaking at night,” Shepard continues when she is comfortable, “that’s when I want it the most. When I can hear you on the bed beside me, but I know you’re not actually there.” She wriggles until her arm is around Liara’s shoulders, her hand on her hip while her other remains on her thigh, pulling her ever closer. “It’s not even about sex.” She shifts a little, and Liara holds her breath until she settles again. “I think you’re the only person I’ve ever wanted to just… fall asleep next to. It sounds a lot weirder when I say it.”

“It doesn’t sound weird at all,” Liara counters, and closes her eyes with a smile.

They lie comfortably like that until Liara yawns again.

“You’re tired.”

“Mm,” Liara agrees, forcing her eyes open. “I’m usually asleep by this time of night.”

Shepard holds her for a moment longer, and then pulls reluctantly away. The rain at the window is nothing but a sibilant hiss, and she begins to plot a route home that will keep her relatively dry. “Then I should let you sleep.”

Liara almost asks her not to bother, but holds her tongue. She lets herself be eased back onto the bed as Shepard slides out from beneath her. Her hair is dishevelled and utterly undone, but Jane barely seems to remember that it had once been tied back. She smiles down at Liara and presses a lingering few kisses against her lips.

“Goodnight,” she murmurs upon pulling back.

“I’ll walk you to the door,” Liara offers, but Shepard eases her back down to the bed with another quick kiss.

“Don’t worry about it, I’ll find my way.”

Liara quietly huffs. “It’s not about that.”

“I know,” Shepard grins, and begins pulling on her boots. "But you look exhausted." She picks up her glass of water from the floor and squeezes Liara’s thigh until she yelps and swats her hand away. “Goodnight,” she says, again, emphasising the word even as her gaze softens. “Thank you for dinner.”

“You’re very welcome, Jane,” Liara smiles, and stretches out on the bed.

She remains in that same position long after Shepard has left her bedroom, and barely manages to motivate herself to move in order to prepare for bed. Later, when lights have been turned off and Liara lies beneath her duvet with nothing but the sound of falling rain for company, she wonders if she should have made Jane an offer to stay, after all.

(In her heart of hearts, she knows that Jane would have refused her, and her body aches for her company.)


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m fucking up so many planetary calendars in this chapter and I have absolutely no excuse for it. (I’m really bad at maths. Guess what? English was always my favourite school subject!) If you squint enough it’s easily ignored, I promise, and really not that important. I’m sorry?

Much to their shared dissatisfaction, Liara and Shepard struggle to find time together once the History course finishes for the semester.

Shepard’s other classes run on for a week longer, while Liara shifts her focus to her other extra-curricular interests. She writes three articles for _Galactic Archaeology_ in the space it takes for Shepard’s courses to taper out into a standard end-of-year holiday. She wishes her classmates happy new years and tries not to balk at the number of assignments she has been set to complete before her courses resume.

She celebrates her first free night on her sitting room sofa, legs propped up on a cluttered coffee table, and an old vid playing on the screen. She’s halfway into the movie when Jack returns from wherever she sneaks off to these days (it has become a common occurrence; Shepard does not ask). Her flatmate takes one look at the bowl of popcorn in her lap and falls down into the seat beside her. When Jack leans into her to liberate a handful of kernels, she brings the stench of smoke and beer in with her.

“You stink,” Shepard tells her, leaning away. Jack slips a kernel past her lips and shrugs, denying nothing. She slouches down low in her seat and sets her booted feet beside Shepard’s on the table. There’s a glazy look in her eyes; Shepard would assume that she’s drank herself into contentment, but there’s something else. A rare smile, maybe. The way Jack’s entire body saps as though the energy has been sucked out of her, and she’d enjoyed every second of the process. Shepard’s eyes narrow. “Good night?”

“Hell yeah,” Jack drawls back, her eyes flashing along with the vid. She pops another kernel into her mouth. “You?”

Shepard looks down at her flannel pyjamas. It is barely 7pm. “Damn right.” She shifts the bowl in her lap slightly and Jack gladly takes it off her, hooking an arm around it. Shepard doubts she’d get it back now, even if she felt like trying. “I wanted to ask you about something, actually.”

“Shoot.”

“I’m thinking of inviting some people over, if that’s alright with you?”

Jack’s slender shoulders lift. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Like… a lot of people? My friends.” Jack turns to her, finally, and Shepard tries not to be insulted by the look of incredulity on her face. “My old crew,” she elaborates, frowning, and Jack turns back to the screen. “I don’t know how many will actually be getting some shore leave, so no one might show up yet, but I thought I’d do something soon. For Christmas, actually.”

She watches Jack closely, waiting for some elaboration on her plans, and isn’t surprised in the slightest when Jack gives her nothing.

“There’ll be food and drinks…”

“Whatever,” Jack shrugs. “Just tell me when and I’ll fuck off.”

“What? No, I mean, you’re totally welcome to stay. If you don’t have any other plans.” Jack turns to her again, eyes narrowed, but supplies nothing. “It’ll be fun, they’re great. You’ll like them. Maybe. You can even bring someone, if you want, just… you know, no one sketchy. They’re all still pretty high ranking, and if someone pulls out a bag of red sand…”

Jack’s glare does not ease, even if she is smirking. She doesn’t offer Shepard any reassurance, and honestly, Shepard shouldn’t be surprised at all. Finally, she eases back into the sofa and plucks a kernel from the bowl, asking, “Who the fuck would I want to invite?”

Shepard marks that down as a confirmation of her attendance, and folds her arms comfortably beneath her breasts. She turns back to the screen and shrugs, the smirk on her face cancelling out her attempted air of nonchalance. Jack does not notice, either way. “Whoever put that smile on your face earlier, maybe?”

Jack just snorts loudly. “Shut up, Shepard.”

 

Not long after their discussion, Shepard slips into the kitchen to make coffee.

(It is too late for it, but her body has long since stopped registering anything less than three cups a day. Does that make her a better or worse college student, she wonders?)

She leaves the machine whirring and pulls up her wrist, activating her omni-tool. She slips onto a stool at the breakfast bar while skimming through her contacts. When she finds Liara’s number, she hits ‘call’. The buzzer rings out for a few agonising seconds longer than usual before Liara picks up, and Shepard wonders if she’d left it on silent.

“Hey, babe,” she drawls, slouching with both elbows on the table. “I’m not interrupting you, am I?”

“In fact, you are,” Liara replies, but sounds too pleased with the fact for Shepard to feel any guilt. “But I’m only proofreading, and really it would probably be more beneficial if I waited until the morning to complete it. Can I help you with anything?”

“Wow, you’re really in full Professor Mode, aren’t you?”

“Jane?”

“I was only calling to catch up,” Shepard smirks, biting her lip.

There is a short pause on the other end of the call, and then what almost sounds like an exhaled expletive (almost, because this is _Liara_ she’s speaking with, and the most damnable curse Shepard’s ever heard come past her lips has been in reference to her _Goddess_ ). “Of course you did, I’m sorry. How are you?”

“Don’t worry about it, I’m good. Actually, I was hoping we could speak. In person, I mean.”

“That sounds awfully serious.”

“No, not really,” Shepard promises. “Just something I want to ask you about.”

There is another brief pause.

“I see,” Liara finally says, and Shepard detects a hint of a smile in her voice. “As it so happens, there is also something that I would like to ask _you_.”

“How intriguing…”

“Indeed,” Liara laughs. “Where shall we meet?”

“My place is good?” Liara hums in approval. “Are you busy tomorrow?”

“Tremendously, actually.” She sounds genuinely regretful, but soon perks up. “The day after? I could come by later on in the evening.”

“Are you trying to _schedule_ a booty call?” Shepard asks, quickly pressing a hand to her mouth to keep from laughing. She really does not want to draw Jack’s attention. “There’s an art to spontaneity, you know?”

“I have no idea what you’re referring to, Jane, but if your tone is anything to go by, then no. I am not.” She scoffs quietly on the other end of the line, and Shepard hides her grin behind her hand again. “I’m attending a dinner at six, but it will not run on for long. If it does, I will certainly be leaving early…”

“Who’s your hot date?” Shepard asks, vaguely aware of the coffee machine signalling its finish. “Anyone I know?”

“You’ve met the History department,” Liara says, smiling still, Shepard is sure. “It’s a work thing.” She does not sound in the slightest bit excited, and Shepard snorts a little too loudly. Liara, apparently, notices. Her tone is slightly more clipped when she continues, “Is that suitable?”

“Sure,” Shepard grins, “get here whenever, I’ll be in.”

After a brief hesitation, Liara inquires, “And Jack?”

Shepard does not detect a hint of apprehension within her tone, and so she answers truthfully, “Probably. Then again, maybe not. She’s rarely in, these days. I think she’s seeing someone.” She turns her head in the direction of the living area, making sure that their conversation is not being listened in on. “She’s all… smiley. It’s weird.”

“Jane,” Liara chastises.

“No, it’s great.” Shepard lowers her voice. “She’s always telling me a good orgasm is the best cure for any ailment, and she’s the grumpiest shit I’ve ever met, so…”

“ _Jane_.”

“True story!”

“As fascinating as this is,” Liara says, deliberately shifting the conversation along, “I really should return to my work.”

Shepard barely keeps from whining. “I thought you said you’re going to proofread in the morning?”

“You assume that’s the only task I have to complete,” Liara sighs. When she speaks again, it’s in that regretful tone that Shepard is quickly associating with things she does not want to hear. “I would love to speak with you for longer, but if I let myself get behind now it will set off the rest of my schedule, and I really do want to spend some time with you soon.”

“I hear ya.”

“You don’t sound best pleased.”

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” she tries to reassure her, but there’s little she can say against the truth of Liara’s words. “I’ll see you soon, yeah?”

“Of course, and you’ll have my full attention when you do.”

“Likewise.”

“Goodnight, Jane,” Liara tells her, “don’t stay up too late.”

Shepard rolls her eyes, but a smile returns to her face. “Yes, Doctor.”

Liara offers a faintly laughed goodbye before terminating the call, and Shepard attends to her coffee. When she returns to the sitting room, half of her bowl of popcorn has already disappeared and Jack doesn’t seem to be slowing down. Shepard resumes her position beside her and can’t help but stare. In the almost-year that Jack has lived with her, this might be the first time she’s ever seen the other woman eating more than a handful of food at a time. There’s evidence of Jack’s diet, certainly, but hell if Shepard’s ever actually seen her _cook_ something.

When Jack notices her staring, she curls a little more protectively over the bowl. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“What do you want, Shepard?”

She holds her breath. “Just… glad you’re enjoying the popcorn.”

“You’re so fucking weird.”

Jack turns pointedly back to the screen and they do not speak again while the movie is still playing.

 

Shepard brushes her teeth before Liara’s arrival. She’d call it presumptuous, if she hadn’t eaten garlic for dinner.

The point is, Shepard brushes her teeth before Liara’s arrival, and the toothpaste is still fresh in her mouth when Liara, exhausted from her celebratory dinner, slips onto a stool at Shepard’s breakfast bar and rubs at her eyes. After ensuring that it’s to her tastes, Shepard offers to make them both a cup of coffee. She takes a seat beside Liara and suffers through one miserable minty sip before returning her mug purposefully to the bar.

She turns her attention on Liara, instead, who stifles a yawn behind one hand and blinks the excess moisture from her eyes. “That bad?” Shepard smirks, and Liara turns a small, embarrassed smile on her.

“I have been working late these last few days, in my defence.”

“Of course you have. How are the articles coming?”

“Going, actually,” Liara sighs, and takes another sip from her coffee. “Straight into my editor’s inbox. I dare presume to hear from her again before the week is out.” Shepard offers a sympathetic smile. “And how are you?” Liara asks. “Enjoying your time as a free woman?”

“Free? You know what my to-do list entails. It’ll be a miracle if I even pass this year.”

Liara’s expression softens. She places a hand on Shepard’s thigh and gently pats. “Of course you will,” she says, resolute. “You’re the most determined person I’ve ever met, Jane. I have no doubt you can accomplish anything you set your mind to, if only because giving up would wound your pride.”

“That’s a very elaborate way of calling me stubborn.”

“It is,” Liara agrees, and pecks quickly at her cheek, bringing with her a tangle of scents; coffee, sweet wine, and a hint of perfume that Shepard could probably recognise in her sleep. She leans back into her seat, again, and the last lingering scents of her evening taper out. “I am right, you know?”

Shepard snorts and nods her head. “I’ll pass,” she concedes. “History, at least.”

Liara pinches her knee in return.

She livens up once she is halfway through her coffee mug, and sets it purposefully down on the bar’s surface, angling her body towards Shepard. Sensing something important is about to begin, Shepard mirrors her position. Liara stares at her for three whole seconds before the markings above her eyes rise and she prompts, “Well?”

“Yeah?”

“There was a reason you invited me over here,” Liara’s voice dips, lips upturning with both amusement and a hint of doubt, “not just for a—what was the term you used? My translator must have missed it…”

“Booty call?”

“Ah, no. My translator did _not_ miss it.”

Shepard laughs and shrugs her shoulders. Liara looks good in her tight-fitted dress, a stripe down its centre that exaggerates the curve of her hips. If that was the kind of relationship they had, she would gladly admit to the possibility. But, it is not, and she will not, especially when Liara has gone so far as to define where sex sits on her comfort zone.

She lays her hand on top of Liara’s and says, “I _do_ have something to ask you, actually.” Liara perks up again when she activates her omni-tool and presents an unfamiliar calendar. The 25 th of the month is lit up with a neon tree and flashing fairy lights; Shepard turns an expectant look on Liara and grins.

“You’re… celebrating?” Liara guesses, and Shepard’s smile turns indulgent. “Please don’t make me guess, Jane.”

“I’m surprised you have to, but okay, I’ll take pity on you. It’s Christmas.” Recognition flashes across Liara’s face, the holographic icon suddenly making sense. She looks vaguely disappointed at having dismissed the clue so quickly. “We’re hosting a party here—I’m hosting a party here, I should say. Jack will probably also attend, as well as some friends, old crew members… I’d like it if you could come, if you want to?”

Liara has not moved her hand from Shepard’s thigh, and now uses the position to offer a reassuring stroke. “Of course I want to,” she grins, but her smile soon falters. “I thought Christmas was traditionally celebrated with a feast.”

“A meal,” Shepard shrugs.

“I recall something about a bird?”

“Turkey.”

Liara nods her head, but the question in her expression is clear. Shepard shies away from it almost immediately, shrugging and shaking her head as though she can’t decide on which dismissal to use first. Something hard and walnut-size lodges itself in her throat, and for a second Shepard thinks she might actually choke on it. “It’s no big deal,” she finally manages. “It’s difficult to celebrate properly when you’re on a ship.”

“You are no longer on a ship,” Liara points out. “Don’t you want to celebrate, now that you can?”

“I-It’s not that. I’ve just fallen out of the habit of it.” Liara looks faintly perplexed by the idea. “Besides, I’m inviting a bunch of different races, they won’t want to sit through all that tradition when we can get wasted and dance badly, instead.” Her voice sounds tight, strained, and something that looks an awful lot like comprehension dawns on Liara’s face. She nods her head, and Shepard tries to ignore the look on her face. She will not call that old pity into existence.

“It’s just… easier,” she says, and Liara does not argue.

“I’d love to come to your party,” she says again, and strokes Shepard’s knee. “Though you will have to translate this, I’m afraid.” She gestures to the hologram on Shepard’s lowered omni-tool. “I have not yet memorised your key Earthen dates in comparison to a Standard calendar.”

And just like that, Shepard can smile again. “ _Yet_?” she asks, and Liara shows her an indulgent grin. She lets the joke slide and taps into her omni-tool to fix her calendar back to its typical setting. Liara waits patiently beside her, sipping again from her cooling coffee. When she turns to show her the revised date, however, the look of startled dejection sets Shepard’s heart fluttering again.

“Oh,” Liara sighs. “Oh, no.”

Shepard grimaces. “What’s wrong?”

“The date of your party,” Liara points out. “I was—actually, it was part of the reason I came here. You recall I had something to ask you?” Shepard had, actually, completely forgotten, but she feigns remembrance now, nodding her head. “You recall, also, my mother inviting me to spend Janiris at home?”

“I do.” A sinking feeling tugs at Shepard’s stomach. “The dates clash, don’t they?”

Liara winces and nods again.

“I’ve already booked a flight for your _25 th_,” she sighs. “I was… going to ask if you would like to join me. Janiris is important to me, and it has been some time since I have celebrated with… loved ones and friends. I thought… well, Thessia is so far from here, and who would recognise us if they saw us in the street together?” She quickly dismisses the thought. “Of course, it might be _too_ far, and I hadn’t considered your plans. And you have so much work to complete…”

She attempts to remove her hand from Shepard’s thigh, but it is quickly recaptured, their fingers pleated together. Liara takes a deep breath and sighs it back out again. When she next meets Shepard’s gaze, it is with a smile that fools neither of them. “It’s okay,” she murmurs, “it was just a thought.”

“A considerate one,” Shepard tells her. She has not let herself imagine what it would be like to walk down a street with Liara’s hand in her own and not have to worry about who might see them, and what might happen as a consequence. The idea assaults her now; it paints a bright image in Shepard’s head, and she winces at the thought of it being cast aside so carelessly. A thought quickly strikes her. She turns to Liara and hesitates for a short moment before asking, “Are you celebrating the same day you fly out?”

Understanding crosses Liara’s expression.

“No,” she says, and a small smile hints at her lips. “The following day, though the celebrations begin much later in the evening. I could fly out that morning.” Her smile turns suddenly demure. “And… you are very welcome to join me.”

She looks so hopeful that Shepard’s chest clenches. “I’d like that,” she says, and it almost surprises her just how much she means it. “I’d really like that.”

“I’m relieved,” Liara tells her, and gladly accepts the kiss that Shepard leans in to initiate. It lingers for longer than intended, and Liara moves her hand from Shepard’s thigh to her shoulder to hold her balance. When she tips her head away, it is in time to catch Shepard’s pouting lips spread into a wide smile.

“You do realise we’ll be flying out the day after a party, right?” Shepard asks, and Liara’s head spins before she can truly focus on their intention. “Have you ever hit a relay with a hangover?”

Liara snorts and the haze clouding her mind dissipates. “You assume I will be sharing your hangover.”

“Oh, you don’t think you will be?” Shepard asks, though her tone of voice suggests they both already know what she believes. “I didn’t know you handled your liqueur so well.”

“How would you? We never seem to get much further than a bottle of wine before losing all interest in what we’re drinking.”

“True,” Shepard laughs.

Liara eases comfortably back into her own seat, extracting her hand from Shepard’s shoulder. A contemplative look comes over her face, and Shepard waits a moment to hear the results. “I will have to change my flight,” Liara says, finally, already adding a mental note to adjust her timetable. Shepard is surprised that she doesn’t just pull her omni-tool up and mark the change in. “The return should be fine… You should book your tickets soon, though. I would like to sit beside you while we fly.”

“I can do better than that.” She taps thoughtfully on the breakfast bar and hopes that she isn’t making a false promise. “With any luck, I’ll be able to get us a personal ride to Thessia.”

“You don’t mean from your friends..?”

“I do,” Shepard nods, and Liara’s face pinches.

“I do hope they have designated pilots…”

“Ha, don’t worry. The only person who won’t be over the influence also lives on Thessia. Knowing her, she’ll want to leave at first light to get back to her,” she wiggles her fingers, “ _duties_. I don’t think it’d be too much trouble to ask to be dropped off along the way.”

Liara looks sceptical for all of three seconds before releasing a tittering laugh. “Oh,” she exaggerates, “I see. You’re talking about your _Justicar_ friend.”

Shepard laughs along with her, but still manages to look vaguely insulted. “Why is it so difficult for you to believe that I’m friends with a Justicar?”

“Perhaps I would be more inclined to believe you if you hadn’t already teased me enough with stories of your _glory days_.” Shepard laughs again. “I don’t find it so hard to imagine you finding a friend in a Justicar,” Liara says, at last. “I have little experience with any, myself, and while they take their code very seriously, it is not outside the realm of possibility to imagine them having friends.” And then her expression breaks into a disbelieving smile. “But to set aside their duties for an entire night, to attend a party, no less?”

“Well, it wouldn’t be the first time,” is Shepard’s only defence, and Liara laughs again. “You have to start giving me the benefit of the doubt, Liara. Not all my stories are made up.”

“Then I certainly look forward to being proven wrong.” She presses a quick kiss to Shepard’s cheek. “May I use your bathroom?”

Shepard directs her towards the little en-suite just off her bedroom. She waits on the bed while Liara enters the room, and spends all of ten seconds wondering if she had bothered to empty her laundry basket at all this week. She looks down at the shirt she is wearing and grimaces, hoping that she hasn’t, at least, left any gym wear in there.

Whatever the case, Liara does not bring up the laundry when she exits the bathroom, nor the empty bottles of shower gel on the side of the tub that she just hasn’t gotten around to throwing out yet. She spots Shepard reclining comfortably upon the bed, and offers her a small smile before taking the time to appreciate the bedroom that she is seeing for the first time.

Shepard’s appreciation for minimalism has not escaped the room that she likely spends the majority of her time in, though Liara does take a moment to study the model ships and military vehicles that have been proudly secured to one entire wall. She steps closer to inspect the model _Normandy_ and smiles at the detail that has been put into it.

“I didn’t have you pinned as a collector,” Liara says, and hears shuffling on the bed. When she turns around, Shepard is sitting on the edge of it with her feet planted firmly apart, watching her. She feels vaguely exposed by the look in Shepard’s eyes, and raises a self-conscious hand to touch the collar of her dress before realising that she needn’t bother – needn’t feel this way at all. She lowers her hand and gestures to the wall behind her. “How long have you had this?”

“Years. They came with me from my cabin.” She gives the wall behind Liara an appraising glance and then smirks. “They were the only things I ever hung up in there, too.” A small smile lifts the corners of Liara’s mouth, and Shepard cannot help but stare, for a moment, and imagine Liara on the _Normandy_ with her, standing before her wall models, waiting expectantly for an elaboration on an assignment.

Her stomach flops uncomfortably, and Liara must notice. When Shepard reaches out a hand and asks her, “come here,” in a voice so soft it barely sounds like her own, Liara does not hesitate. She takes the offered hand and needs no encouragement to sit sideways in Shepard’s lap with one arm draped around her shoulders. She kisses her cheek, but Shepard is quick and greedy and steals a proper kiss before she can move away again.

Liara does not complain.

When Shepard slips her tongue past her lips, Liara moans too loudly and jolts back in surprise. She looks at Shepard with startled, blue eyes before dipping her head into the safety of a warm shoulder, and laughing at herself. Shepard grins and wraps her arms around her, hands running the length of her back. When Liara stops laughing and instead releases a long, warm yawn against Shepard’s neck, she almost feels guilty for asking her to come over so late.

Apparently, she thinks, not guilty enough to kiss Liara’s temple and ask, “Can I convince you to stay for another thirty minutes?”

“Yes,” Liara answers honestly.

“Should I?”

Liara lifts her head to look at her, eyes soft and hooded. A smile is already easing onto her lips.

“I think you already have,” she hums, and lowers Shepard gently to the bed.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you ready to jingle your bells?
> 
> This chapter has been a nightmare. I’ve tried to play around with it as best I can but it’s been very difficult, so I hope it flows okay. My sleeping pattern is whack and it’s doing weird things to everything else in my life, basically. But your feedback has been super encouraging – it helps a lot!

Liara decides that she will bring the gift herself.

It is not small, but it is not heavy enough to cause a problem on the short walk between her skycar and Shepard’s apartment. It will not fit inside any of the gift bags that she has, and she has left it far too late to purchase anything larger now. She had considered saving it for when they returned from Thessia, or having it delivered earlier to Shepard’s apartment in the mail, but having spent so much time deliberating on what to buy for her, Liara needs to see Shepard’s reaction once she unveils what it is.

(It is a silly gift, Liara thinks. She should not place so much expectation upon Shepard’s reaction, and yet…)

She tucks the gift under one arm as she leaves her apartment, and waits for the door to close before securing the panel with more than the automatic locking system. It is already dark out, the sun having set at little later than early-evening, and the lights in the corridor are bright and intermittent between large windows. They bounce off the silver wrapping paper of the gift and make it shine.

Through the windows, the sky is murky and overcast, and a gale blows blue leaves across the private garden. Liara is drawn to the sight. She wonders if she should have picked up a thicker coat, and even considers returning to her apartment to pick up something a little warmer than the light jacket that matches her dress. Before she can decide on which direction to move in, however, Liara is surprised out of her thoughts by a noise further down the corridor.

“Going somewhere nice, babe?”

Liara startles away from the window, clutching both her handbag and Shepard’s gift closer to her chest. The door to her neighbour’s apartment slides closed with a sibilant hiss, the woman herself slipping her hands into her coat pockets as she nears Liara. Her smile is more smirk by the time she reaches her, and Liara blushes as though she’s just been caught doing something embarrassing.

“Hello, Aethyta,” she offers, relaxing. “And yes, actually, I am.” Aethyta takes a long look at the box in her hands, and Liara suddenly worries that the metallic silver wrapping paper isn’t festive enough. Will Jane notice? “A Christmas party,” she elaborates, and Aethyta makes a small noise of acknowledgement.

“Your little human, huh?” she asks with that same satisfied smirk, and Liara’s cheeks blush again even as she nods. “Though _little_ isn’t exactly the right word for her…” Her grin widens and Liara cannot help but mirror it, even as her cheeks turn navy blue. “What are you doing standing around out here? You forget something?”

“No, I…” She turns briefly back towards her apartment, and then realises that the whole debacle about her coat had been some elaborate attempt at hesitation – a trick played on her by her own subconscious. She feels foolish, like old anxieties have crept up on her and she has suddenly forgotten how to beat them down again. “I was just leaving.”

Aethyta nods her head.

Liara struggles to read the expression on her face. Whether she has bought the lie or simply does not care, she cannot tell. Aethyta sends the bleak landscape beyond the window pane her own noncommittal glance and shrugs her shoulders as though, even if she found a hurricane out there, she’d simply pull her coat a little tighter and hunch against the wind. Liara observes her neighbour for a moment longer, and comes to the conclusion that the image, as ridiculous as it sounds, is certainly fitting.

“Shit’s not getting any prettier,” Aethyta mumbles to herself, and it takes Liara a moment to realise that she means the weather.

“It doesn’t seem like it, no.”

“Then what are we waiting for?”

She turns to Liara and smiles in that disarming way that Aethyta has, brusque and crude, but unquestioningly comforting. Liara would not be surprised if the other woman reached out and hung an arm across her shoulders, pulling her in tight, telling her, _don’t worry, kid, don’t worry about anything_. She does not, of course, but the mental image has Liara smiling.

“Nothing at all.”

They take the elevator to the ground floor, and Liara inquires after Aethyta’s own plans. She knows very little about her neighbour. Although Aethyta’s questioning can sometimes be intrusive, Liara has never felt comfortable returning the probing, even as her curiosity strengthens. She is not surprised when Aethyta dismisses her attempt at small talk with a blunt, “work,” but it is not said unkindly, and she soon pushes the conversation on and away from the topic until the elevator stops.

Liara steps out first, and Aethyta walks her halfway towards the entrance before their paths separate.

“Have a good night, kid,” Aethyta tells her as she turns towards the exit, Liara herself heading for the garage. “Be careful around that human. I know what they’re like.”

She disappears through the door before Liara can defend Shepard’s honour, waving over one shoulder. Liara calls a goodbye after her, but doubts that she hears it. She tucks Jane’s gift securely under one arm as she nears the stairs that lower into the garage, and uses her free hand to hit the pressure pad on the door. It opens with a gust of cold air, and Liara wonders if she wasn’t right to have her earlier hesitations about bringing a warmer jacket.

Either way, there is little point in turning back now. She finds her skycar quickly and slips inside, safe from the cold. The gift is placed carefully down on the seat beside her, and the heater adjusted before Liara starts the engine and lifts off into the night.

 

Sound is thrumming from Shepard’s apartment when Liara arrives, the skycar parked nearly two blocks away in the struggle to find an empty spot. The sudden influx of vehicles parked outside and around the apartment block does little to steady her nerves; Jane must have many guests, she thinks. How many people did it take to run a ship? And when Jane said _old crew mates_ , did she mean _just_ the ones who went out on missions with her, or all those that maintained the ship, as well?

She stands for a moment outside of Shepard’s door, clinging to the gift with both hands. Music thrums on the opposite side of it, muffled but strong and steady. The baseline sounds much like her racing heartbeat. It reaches out to her, draws her in, vibrates in her chest as she takes a step closer.

 _You’re being silly_ , she tells herself.

This is not the first party she has been to. It probably will not be the last time that she is surrounded by people whom she does not know. That might have bothered her, once upon a time, when she was so accustomed to travelling alone that the briefest hint of social interaction could send her entire psyche off kilter.

It has been a while since those old anxieties resurfaced, and she does her best to swallow them down, now. She hits the pressure pad and waits to be received.

When the door does open, Liara’s heart jumps up into her throat. She allows a short few seconds of awkward silence to calm herself down again, and then addresses the woman in front of her (the woman who is neither Shepard nor Jack, but an attractive human who smiles at her with the glassy patience of one who has had enough to drink to feel comfortable but not inhibited).

“Hello,” she says, “I’m Liara T’Soni? I’m… here for the party.”

Recognition does not register on the woman’s face – not even just a flicker of it – and Liara feels her stomach clench. Finally, the woman’s eyes land on the gift in her arms, and her smile widens. “Of course you are,” she says, her voice accented and lilting. “Come inside. They’re already drinking, can I get you something?”

No sooner has Liara stepped into the apartment than another human is upon her, appearing so close and so quickly, as though out of thin air, that Liara actually startles. This second human, wearing a hood that masks all but her smiling mouth, holds out her arms for the gift. Before she can think against it, Liara hands the present over and clasps her empty hands together.

“I’ll put this with the others,” the human tells her, and turns on her heel.

A bark of laughter draws Liara’s attention away from her and towards the living area, where the music is the loudest and rivalled only by the volume of conversation. Liara scans the crowd that has gathered there, but can spot neither Shepard nor Jack among the thick of the bodies. She turns back towards the woman who had taken the gift from her, ready to ask over Jane’s whereabouts, but the human’s complete and utter disappearance almost rivals just how suddenly she had appeared in the first place.

Unnerved, Liara pivots in place towards the kitchen, and finds the woman who had let her into the apartment nearing her with three drinks in her hands. She pushes one towards Liara until she takes it, and gestures towards the living room. “They’re all in there,” she tells her, urging her forward, and Liara quietly thanks her before taking a step in the right direction.

When she glances back over one shoulder to see whether or not the woman is following her, she finds the kitchen empty and undisturbed.

Before she has time to question whether or not she had imagined the entire encounter, Liara reaches the living area and all conversation stops. She finds herself suddenly at the centre of attention from a group of people who she has never in her life met. To her horror, she discovers that she is entirely overdressed. The attention is enough to make her squirm, but before she can begin her introductions, a familiar voice comes to her rescue.

“Liara!”

The second Liara sees Shepard, nestled between a krogan and a human of similar size on a sofa that is far too small for all three of them, a smile comes big a bright to her face. It only grows when she witnesses Shepard’s attempts to squeeze free and hobble drunkenly to her feet, telling those around her, “Hey, I told you she’d be here!”

Liara feels a crowd of roaming eyes appraise her.

“You owe me fifty credits,” a turian says, and a quarian bats away his up-turned hand.

Shepard ignores them all, finally free and making her way towards Liara with a large grin on her face. She slips an arm around her waist and pulls her in tight for a one-armed hug. Liara does the best that she can with a drink in one hand. It is quick and uncoordinated, and Shepard’s inebriated body sways into her and threatens her balance, but Liara’s smile does not waver.

“When did you start drinking?” she laughs when Jane sways back again.

“I don’t remember.”

“I’m not late, am I?”

“No, no, they just came early.” She remembers the crowd of people watching them and turns away from Liara, pulling her body in tight to her side. “Well, say hello!”

A murmur of greetings rises up above the music, along with a, “ _damn_ , Lola,” that Liara will take as a compliment, intended or not. She greets Shepard’s friends in turn, smiling and taking in the faces. There are enough for her to worry about remembering all of their names, but not so many as to dredge up an overwhelming need to hide inside a bathroom and lock the door behind her.

She is making progress.

Once she is finished saying her hellos, Shepard leans in close to say something about a drink and a coat closet, and then leads her back towards the door. She holds Liara’s drink for her while she shrugs out of her jacket, but Liara stops her before she can take her handbag, too.

“Wait, I have something…” She fishes around inside and comes up with a soft wrapped package that is barely larger than her hand. Once she has it, she hands her bag back to Shepard to put away, but Shepard makes no move towards the closet.

“You bought me a present?” she asks, her eyes wide and suddenly sobering when she manages to tear her gaze away from the little package. Liara bites at her bottom lip, feeling guilty for not having the larger gift on her, but nods her head. She _has_ bought Jane a present. Only…

“This is actually for Jack,” she confesses, and Shepard’s face falls.

“You bought _Jack_ a present?”

“Of course. I have one for you, too, but your friend took it off my hands when I got here.”

“Wait, which friend?” Before Liara can answer, Shepard grins and asks, “Was she wearing a hood?”

“Yes, she was.”

“Aha! I knew Kasumi was here. Was she the one who let you in, too? Sorry I didn’t hear the door go over the music.”

“That’s alright, but no, not Kasumi? Another woman, I didn’t get her name.” Shepard looks at her blankly, and Liara quickly grabs for a description. “Ah, she was a human? She had long, dark hair.”

There is no dawning moment of recognition on Shepard’s face. Her confused frown furrows deeper and she glances around her own kitchen, as though to find the mysterious woman still present. “Really?” she asks, and Liara nods her head. “That’s weird.” She casts another quick glance around, taking stock of those present. “I wonder where Jack went…”

Remembering her initial task, she returns to the closet to hang up Liara’s jacket and handbag.

“I see you already have a drink,” she points out upon returning. “Give me a moment to grab a beer and I’ll introduce you properly to everyone.” She meanders towards the kitchen, looking back over one shoulder to confirm that Liara is following. “They’re all really excited to get to know you. Also, I confiscated all of their omni-tools. No working while we’re partying, and no pictures, so… we’re all good and safe.”

She reaches into the fridge and returns again with a bottle of beer in hand. Liara surmises that Shepard’s guests are unaware of how they met, and makes a brief mental note to hide the truth of it when speaking to them. The planned deception leaves a heavy feeling in her stomach, but Shepard returns to her before she has a chance to over-analyse anything.

“Come on,” she grins, her hand returning to Liara’s back. Without her jacket on, it is bare and on full display; she shivers pleasantly against Shepard’s touch. “There’s someone in particular I want you to meet.”

“Oh?”

“Be prepared to shit yourself,” she says, probably confusing one idiom for another, and brings Liara to a stop in front of a tall asari. Her skin is pale and her cat-suit red and plunging. Liara feels every nerve in her body stand on end when the woman’s cool, blue eyes meet her own, a hint of a smile turning up her lipsticked mouth. “Liara, this is Samara. I believe you’ve already heard a lot about her…”

 

At some point within the night, Liara decides that carrying Jack’s present around with her is not the most convenient idea. Seeing as the woman herself has disappeared (a reoccurring theme among the guests who attend Jane’s parties, perhaps?), she sets it aside on the corner kitchen counter and has Shepard herself write a name tag on a post-it note so that Jack will know that it’s for her.

There are other words written on the post-it, too, but Liara only makes out her own name and a couple of prepositions in the alien alphabet. When she asks what the note says, Shepard giggles and takes her hand, dragging her back into the thick of her group of friends before she can protest.

Not that she would protest, Liara is discovering, because as terrifying as some of Shepard’s friends’ reputations and ranks are, they have all been increasingly welcoming to her. She imagines that must be part of working on a ship like the _Normandy_ , with such a diverse and apparently changeable crew. You’d never know who you were going to be cramped into tiny bunkbeds with next, but getting on their wrong side is probably a bad idea, either way.

Better yet, Shepard’s friends are _talkative_ drunks, welcoming her into their nostalgic retellings of missions and incidents that make her both blush and squirm. She discovers, to her chagrin and her girlfriend’s preening satisfaction, that many of Jane’s _stories_ are not tall tales, though after the Justicar incident Liara is finding it difficult to be surprised.

(An honest to Goddess Justicar! Right there in Shepard’s living room! At one point she touches a hand to Liara’s elbow to gain her attention, and Liara turns doe-eyed and beetroot.)

(Samara is pleasant to talk to even as Liara stumbles over her words and forgets how to hold herself in social situations. She tolerates Liara’s stammering and blushing with a graceful smile, and not once makes her feel uncomfortable. Her first meeting with a Justicar is incredibly underwhelming, but she is not disappointed.)

Shepard is different around them, too.

It is a subtle change, something in the way that she holds herself, Liara imagines, or the tone of voice she uses, even as her words begin to slur. She’s naturally _authoritative_ , reacting to the obvious respect that her friends show her, even as they tease her (and there is a lot of that, Liara notices, but it is said with love and makes her ache to know these people better, and the world that they come from, the Jane Shepard that led them into battles before she sat in History seminars and distracted Liara into total incoherency with nothing but her bare arms).

A round of laughter sounds out and Liara blinks quickly out of her thoughts.

“…but her _dancing_ ,” Tali cries, pulling Liara back into the conversation when she places a hand on her knee. “Keelah, Liara, how you put up with her…”

“I’m sitting right here,” Shepard grumbles from Liara’s other side. She has been drawing her fingers distractedly along Liara’s bare back for the past half hour.

“And thank the Spirits for that…”

“Don’t take it personally, Lola, your skills lie elsewhere.”

“Guys,” Shepard groans.

Liara laughs and shakes her head, quietly amending, “I have yet to witness Jane’s dancing for myself.” (“Who the hell’s Jane?” a krogan asks, and Liara struggles to tell if he’s joking.) She turns her gaze on her girlfriend and grins at the look Shepard throws her – _not you, too_. “But now I really am intrigued. Is it as spectacular as they say?”

“Better,” Tali promises.

“You have to show me.”

“You _have_ to show her, Shepard,” Traynor parrots, and Liara laughs again.

Whatever protestations Shepard attempts are soon drowned out by a chant for her to dance. She casts Liara a look of pouting betrayal, but she does not come to Shepard’s aid. Liara presses a hand to her mouth to hide her grin, at first, but cannot contain the belly-deep chuckle that bubbles up. Seeing it, Shepard’s own cheeks ache with her attempt to stifle her smile.

“You’re all terrible people,” she says, pushing her way to her feet. “ _Terrible_ people. Enjoy your bad karma.” She gets a round of applause once she manages it, and holds a hand out to Liara, who looks taken aback by the offer. “I’m not doing this alone,” Shepard warns her, and Liara laughs and laughs and takes her hand, allowing herself to be pulled into the centre of the living area.

It is not a large space, even with the coffee table pushed to one wall. They stumble around sprawled-out legs in an effort to find a space for themselves, and soon force the rest of the group onto their feet. The music is still blaring, an instrumental song that rivals the music that plays in the SU Bars on campus. Jack had taken over only three songs into Shepard’s Christmas playlist, and then disappeared once everyone was too drunk to complain about it.

Right about now, Shepard is regretting allowing her to put on something so… _energetic_.

She takes Liara by the hand and spins her around before drawing her back into her chest again, and their awkwardness loosens up as well as their muscles. The next time Shepard spins her, the room tilts, disorienting Liara into a passive sway with her back pressed flush to Shepard’s chest.

Directly in front of her, Tali and Samara shake their hips in an attempt at coordination that the quarian’s inebriated state ruins. A human woman whose name escapes Liara hip-bumps her way into their twosome and sets their entire rhythm off.

The Justicar’s laughter rings out across the room and Liara has to wonder if this isn’t the most surreal moment of her entire life.

She turns again in Shepard’s arms and indulges in their dancing together for a moment longer. With her arms looped around Shepard’s shoulders, and strong hands on her hips, it’s easy to forget their initial reason for dancing and simply enjoy the closeness that the movement allows them. There’s a rush that comes with it, Liara is surprised to find, with her body pressed so close to Shepard’s and a group of people all around them.

There’s no need to hide anything, and so Liara doesn’t. She presses a kiss to Shepard’s cheek and lingers close enough to speak into her ear.

“I don’t believe this is what your friends were talking about,” she murmurs over the music. “Won’t you show me your dancing?” Shepard’s groan is loud but not reluctant; there’s a smirk on her lips that lets Liara know that she isn’t pushing a sore topic. “You’re not embarrassed, are you?” she presses, and Shepard finally eases away, holding both hands up as though to say, _you asked for this_.

It is difficult for Liara to describe what happens next. Shepard chicken-walks backwards in an attempt at a moonwalk and bites her bottom lip, feigning heavy concentration. Another round of cheers goes across the room, but Liara can barely hear them over her own hiccupping laughter.

Shepard shoots pretend hand-guns at her and then turns them palm-up, beckoning Liara closer with her curling index fingers.

Liara laughs into her hands until she cries.

 

 

It’s only later that they get some time to themselves, after the music has been turned low and then switched off (not prompted by any angry neighbours, but Shepard does not want to push them; the entire building puts up with enough of Jack’s eclectic tastes, already). Conversation had petered out as, one by one, Shepard’s friends had fallen asleep around them.

Shepard is not offended; they’ve taken long journeys to get here, and will take longer journeys still in order to return to where they are needed, but having so many of her old crewmates in one place again fills her a sense of nostalgia that she knows is a lie. It was not all good times, they were not always a family. Shepard can look back on good memories, and there are many of them, but a part of her will always prefer _this_ to the jokes and pranks that they would have to play on each other in order to keep everyone sane.

She casts the room a glance, finds Vega and Ash sharing a sofa, and Cortez curled up on the floor just before them. She and Liara had managed to find a spot on the other couch, tucked together and squashed by Tali, who lies with her legs across both their laps, muttering occasionally in her sleep.

If Shepard glances over the back of the sofa, she’s sure she’ll find Samara still there, legs crossed and eyes closed – meditating or sleeping, Shepard is no longer sure.

Jack has not made a reappearance all night, though the occasional noise comes from her bedroom. Shepard does not want to know how many of her friends are in there, and doing what. She blocks the thought out quickly, turns her attention to Liara so that she cannot stray into unwanted territory, and muses aloud, “They’ve been gone a while, haven’t they?”

“They left over an hour ago,” Liara agrees. “Do you think they’re alright?”

Shepard laughs at her look of concern. “They can take of themselves.”

“It is not the two drunken krogans who have my concern…”

“Fair point,” Shepard snorts. “I guess we’re not getting that take-out.”

Liara runs a hand along her arm in feigned conciliation. “Are you hungry?”

“I don’t know. More tired, I think.” She shuffles in close enough to rest her head on Liara’s shoulder, and smiles when an arm is wrapped around her back, fingers teasing into her hair. “This has been good. I wish everyone could have made it, but… it’s been good. I’m glad you’re here.”

“Me too,” Liara smiles, and kisses her forehead. “Happy Christmas, Jane.” The words spark sudden recognition, even as Shepard hums against her skin and begins peppering kisses along her throat. She jolts up and Shepard lifts her head away in concern. “Your present! Goddess, I completely forgot.” She glances around the apartment, lost. “I have no idea where Kasumi put it…”

“It’s gotta be here somewhere… I don’t _think_ she’d have hidden it.”

The words give her an idea, and she slips her hands beneath Tali’s legs, carefully moving them so that she and Liara can escape the couch. Once she’s done returning Tali to the cushions, Liara drapes the couch throw over her body and follows Jane in an anticlimactic hunt for the present.

It ends in the first place that Shepard looks: her bedroom.

As soon as the door opens, light from the apartment hits the silvery wrapping paper and makes it glow. Shepard grins at the sight. “It’s huge! What did you get me?” she asks, switching on a desk lamp before moving directly for the present. She plucks it from the bed and takes a seat on the edge. Liara does not answer, but grins and folds her arms against her chest, watching as Shepard tears into the paper.

Once she is done, a neat pile at her feet, Shepard pauses in surprise, holding the box in both hands and skimming the label. “You’re shitting me…”

By the door, still, Liara squirms where she stands. “It’s silly, I know— I wasn’t sure what to get you, but if it’s—”

“Liara,” Shepard cuts in, and finally lifts her head, a look of awe on her face. “I’ve been meaning to buy one of these for like three years.”

“You have?”

“Yeah!”

Shepard stands up with the box in her hands, turning it over to find the instructions. “Did you know, the Destiny Ascension has almost the same firepower as the rest of your entire fleet, combined?” she asks, a look of reverence on her face as she comes to stand before her wall of model military vehicles. “It’s over four times the size of the largest human dreadnought.”

“I’m aware,” Liara grins, feeling palpable relief. “I’m glad you like it.”

“I love it,” Shepard insists, and sets the model down. She bends with both hands on her desk to inspect it, still combing through the instructions, and Liara finally moves further into the room. She steps up behind Shepard and places a hand on her back, peering down at the model warship. “Do you think I have time to build it tonight?”

“Perhaps when you’re sober.”

“You’re probably right…” She turns a sharp grin on Liara. “But I do love a challenge.”

“Please, don’t,” Liara laughs. “You should sleep. We are leaving early tomorrow?”

“Just before noon,” Shepard confirms, straightening up. She slips her arms around Liara’s hips and loops her hands together behind her back. The position is gladly welcomed; Liara moves her hands up to Shepard’s shoulders and smiles. “Samara’s given us her cabin for the trip.”

“That’s very kind of her.”

“She is very kind,” Shepard insists. “Beneath the whole Code Thing.”

“I think I may have a minor crush on your Justicar friend,” Liara confesses, and Shepard lets out a healthy chuckle.

“ _Same_.”

A thoughtful look crosses Liara’s face, and Shepard almost makes a joke of it before she understands what is happening. “I can be back here for eleven o’ clock, if you think that will be early enough?” Liara asks, drawing her fingers along Shepard’s shoulders. “Or perhaps I could just meet you at the docking station, to be safe?”

It’s not a bad plan, and yet Shepard finds herself frowning and shaking her head, quietly offering, “stay,” before she really knows what she’s saying. The second the word leaves her mouth, they both pause in deathly silence, as though she’s just pulled the pin from a grenade. Shepard waits to see if it will go off. She feels around her own hazy subconscious, looking for an anxiety that she is too drunk to address.

“Stay,” she repeats, and Liara breathes again.

“Do you mean that?”

“Sure, I do,” Shepard nods, and then worries that Liara will say no. She has kept this from happening for so long, but now that the issue is being addressed, Shepard cannot be sure whether she’s the only one who has problems with this new level of intimacy. Giving Liara an out, she quickly tacks on: “Take my bed.”

Liara blinks.

“You will take your bed also, I hope?”

It’s asked in that tentative way that she has; Shepard does not need to be sober to recognise it.  She scans Liara’s face, catches the look there that tells her she can say no to this, as easily as she has everything else. She does not want to. If she’d had any less to drink, it might surprise her – might horrify her – just how quickly she can throw aside her nerves.

But they will not be gone for long, and Shepard does not know when she will next feel so comfortable having Liara sleep in her arms. It is not an opportunity she wants to let slip by.

Still.

“I’m not a good sleeper.”

“I’m… not sure I understand what that means.”

“I wake up a lot,” Shepard whispers, wanting to give Liara some warning, should the worst happen. “I kick. I shout, sometimes. You’re probably better off in there alone.”

Liara hesitates. “Are you trying to scare me off?”

“No, I’m just being honest.”

After a brief pause, Liara gives the hands captured within her own a small squeeze, and leans forward to press a kiss to Shepard’s mouth. Shepard reads into the gesture for what it is: acceptance. She runs her thumbs along Liara’s knuckles and captures her bottom lip between her teeth.

Liara pulls back before they can get distracted. There is still an apartment full of sleeping guests, she remembers. “Then, I’m going to need something to wear to bed,” she tells Shepard, and tries not to laugh at the thoughtful look on her face. “Pyjamas, Jane.”

“Yes,” Shepard nods, “yes, of course.”

She extracts herself carefully and moves towards her wardrobe, pulling both doors open wide. Liara watches as she reaches into the pile of clothes stuffed haphazardly onto the upper shelf. Once she has retracted a long-sleeved pyjama top and a pair of shorts, she steps back and gives her place over to Liara.

“Pick whatever you like.”

Liara waits until Shepard has entered her en suite bathroom before digging into the pile of pyjamas. After examining an assortment of band t-shirts and fluffy robes, she finds a folded set of all-in-one pyjamas that looks freshly ironed – or, and this is more likely, Liara realises, looks as though they have never before been worn.

When she holds the onesie by the collar and lets it unravel down the front of her body, she soon understands why.

While the pyjamas appear as though they would fit snugly around Liara’s frame, she doubts Shepard would be able to squeeze comfortably into them. Without further contemplation, she reaches back to unclasp the halter neck of her dress and allows it to pool around her hips, easing out of it and her heels.

She sets her clothes aside, draping the dress over the chair at Shepard’s desk to save it from creasing, and then steps into the legs of the onesie. It is a shade of blue darker than her skin, and so soft and warm that Liara does not hesitate to fit her arms into the sleeves and draw the zipper all the way up to her collar. It clings tightly but not uncomfortably to her figure; Liara looks down at herself and laughs quietly, trying to imagine how the pyjamas ended up within Shepard’s possession.

Surely, she wouldn’t have bought them for herself…?

Before Liara can delve into a focused investigation to uncover the truth of the onesie, the bathroom door hisses open and Shepard appears, arms wrapped around her chest to stave off the cold, and her prosthetic clearly visible. It is the first Liara has seen of it, but she does not stare. Couldn’t have, even if she’d wanted to, for seconds later a deep laugh rumbles out of Shepard.

Liara folds her arms defensively against her chest. “You said pick whatever I liked.”

“I did,” Shepard concedes. “Do you want to use my toothbrush?”

“Please.”

She leaves Shepard to climb into bed alone; her drunken laughter stops only when the door to the en suite bathroom has closed around Liara, the light flickering on automatically. She stares at herself in the mirror for a moment, turning this way and that, assessing the damage. The onesie fits as snugly as a commando uniform. Liara thinks she would not mind seeing Shepard in something similar.

Once she has brushed her teeth and cleaned her face, Liara returns to the bedroom. The desk lamp has been turned off and it takes her a moment to find the bed. The sudden darkness reminds her of just how much she has had to drink, and she falls heavily onto the bed once the edge of the mattress hits her knees. Shepard helps her to find her way beneath the duvet, and then they draw in close, legs tangling, arms wrapping too tightly.

They wriggle and shift until they can find a compatible position, and then relax. Liara draws her foot up along Shepard’s bare leg until a shiver runs through it, sending all of her little hairs on end. This close together, all Shepard can smell is Liara’s perfume, surrounding her in the dark. She takes her in with a deep breath, and then sighs her back out again.

“You smell good.”

“Your bed smells good.”

Shepard laughs again. “Thank you.”

The alcohol running through her system has her tired and sluggish, but Liara’s body so close to her own is impossible to ignore. She’s been restraining herself all night, not wanting to embarrass either of them, and now she’s giddy with how together and utterly alone they finally are. She shifts on the bed and Liara seems to understand exactly what she’s thinking.

“Jane,” Liara whispers when she puts a hand on her hip. She curls into the contact, places her own hand where she can feel Shepard’s heart beating against her chest. She is warm and solid, and hooking a leg over Liara’s thighs to draw her in closer. “I wish I could see you…”

“I’m right here,” Shepard tells her, moving forward, and Liara feels minty breath on her face. She reaches out towards Shepard, finds her cheek with an indelicate nudge of her knuckles, and quietly apologises even as her thumb trails down to locate Shepard’s mouth. A kiss gets pressed to the tip of it, and then a nip of teeth when Liara does not move. “Come closer.”

It’s a messy kiss they find themselves in, wet and uncoordinated.

Shepard rolls on top of Liara, holding herself on elbow and knees when she cannot get close enough. Liara plunges her hands into red hair and wraps her legs around Shepard’s hips. Shepard’s body on top of her is taunting, is maddening, she cannot stand to have her so close and not take full advantage. She slips her hands to Shepard’s pyjama top, twists her fingers in the hem of it, and keens like Shepard will instantly understand what she wants.

“Jane…” A tug on the pyjama shirt. “I want to feel you.”

Her words send a shiver through Jane; she feels her shudder against her and then bury her face in her neck, panting hot breath against her throat. Liara lets her head fall back to the pillow, catching her breath. She does not move until a warm voice murmurs against her skin, “go ahead,” and then slips her hands beneath Shepard’s shirt.

Jane is softer than she has imagined – hard beneath her skin but so smooth, save for the little bumps and creases that mark muscles, scars, and bone. Her first touch is hesitant; her fingertips find a crease and follow it down to a small divot. Shepard jerks and hums against her throat when she tickles her belly button, and Liara grins in response. She’ll never be over just how sensitive Shepard is, twitching at her every touch.

Liara is quickly overwhelmed by the need to draw those familiar responses out of her. Her hesitation gives way to the desire; she presses her palms flat against Shepard’s toned abdomen and sighs at the rippling of muscles beneath her hands. Shepard jerks again when she drags her fingers up the side of her torso, and nips at Liara’s throat in sharp retaliation.

“Liara…”

She gets another jerking prod in the ribs for the bite, and laughs again, lifting herself up to see Liara beneath her. The bedroom is no brighter, but Shepard’s eyes are quickly adjusting to the dark. She thinks she makes out the expression on Liara’s face – the deep concentration piqued with arousal – and it steals her breath. When she dips her head, Liara accepts the kiss. A quick jerk of Shepard’s hips has her gasping, grasping at her back, but that only opens Liara up to an entirely new area to investigate.

And investigate, she does.

Her hands are warm and precise along Shepard’s back. Her touch would be soothing if there wasn’t already an uncomfortable throbbing between her thighs. When soft palms have eased along the entirety of her back, they slide up to her broad shoulders, and Liara moans into her mouth. Her touch turns harder, fingers squeezing, testing the muscles as she meets with them. Her legs tighten instinctively around Shepard’s hips, and they both sigh at the friction.

When Liara’s fingers return to her front, it is without that earlier hesitation. She finds scars that she had previously missed, little ones that bump beneath her fingers like tiny bullet-hole buttons, others barely large enough to make a difference, and one so long that Liara runs its entire length three times before pulling away from Shepard’s mouth with a mix of awe and horror.

Shepard does not let her dwell long, does not let her question and dig up old memories that mean little to her now, anyway. She reaches beneath her shirt and takes one of Liara’s hands, bringing it further up to where she wants to feel her. Liara lets herself be puppeteered into place, surprise giving way to desire as Jane cups her own breast in her hand. When Liara closes her hand around it, applying the slightest pressure, Shepard sighs and releases her control.

She brings her hand to the elbow of Liara’s other hand, and Liara does not need to be encouraged. She takes Shepard’s breasts in both hands and alternates between pressures that have Jane’s soft sighs turning into high-pitched mewls and bucking hips. This is where she is most sensitive, save for that special place between her legs, and Liara exploits this fact until Shepard is gasping into her mouth.

The all-in-one pyjamas quickly grow too warm; Liara’s body burns wherever Shepard touches her and she wriggles beneath her in an attempt to bring relief. When it does not come, Liara pulls back from Shepard with a sigh. She removes her hands reluctantly from beneath Shepard’s shirt and brings them, instead, to the little zipper at the collar of the onesie.

Upon seeing this, Shepard’s pouting mouth turns slack-jawed.

“Is this okay?” Liara whispers. “Your friends…?”

“Sleeping – all sleeping.”

“They won’t hear?”

“No.”

Liara takes a deep breath and bites her bottom lip. She plucks the zipper between finger and thumb and draws it half an inch down before she hears Shepard’s bedroom door hiss open. Light pours in, painting a rectangle silhouetted by an elongated, solitary figure across the floor. Liara quickly releases the zipper.

“What are you little bosh'tets doing in here…?”

When Shepard sees who has interrupted them, she groans and rolls off Liara, conceding to the interruption. Liara presses a hand to her chest and _wills_ her heartbeat to slow down. Despite her full covering, she feels suddenly exposed without Shepard on top of her, blocking her from view.

“Tali?”

The door closes behind her, plunging the bedroom back into darkness. Shepard pushes herself up onto one elbow and squints into the shadowy area by the door. “Don’t you dare,” she says when she hears the tell-tale shuffling of drunken footsteps, but her warning comes too late. Seconds later, a weight lands heavily on the bed, and Liara almost jumps out of her skin in surprise.

“Tali,” Shepard groans, attempting to wrap a leg around Liara, as though if she only pulls her close enough the interruption won’t reach them. "This isn't happening."

“Sh,” Tali whispers back, “sh, go to sleep.”

She struggles for a moment to get between them, elbowing several soft parts and causing Liara to yelp. Her scooting away from a knee to her thigh gives Tali the in that she’s seeking; she fills the space like liquid, falling into it and directly between two warm, soft bodies. Shepard rolls onto her back and stares at the ceiling, contemplating how much effort it would take to carry Tali bodily out of her bedroom.

(If she works up enough momentum, she could probably clear the bed without breaking someone…)

From the other side of Tali’s wriggling body, Liara pushes herself up on one arm and peers across to Shepard. Shepard sees her silhouette in the dark for all of half a second before Tali grabs Liara’s arm and draws it around her own body, and whatever last dregs of desire Shepard had stirred up in her fizzle out like a shiny metal boot stomping on embers.

Shepard turns onto her side, and the only thing she can see are two bright, shining eyes blinking across at her. 

 _Merry Christmas to me._  

“Hold me,” Tali demands, and Shepard huddles reluctantly closer.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. The response to the previous chapter was a lil overwhelming. (Should I be human-shielding Tali from numerous little red laser points, or...?) Seriously very humbled by it all, though! Thank you all very much for the support. :)
> 
> This chapter is just a quick bit of something to move the story along before we get into Janiris. I recall very little about the actual celebration itself, and I've done my best to research it up but Bioware's world-building only went so far, I guess. If anybody has any ideas and feels generous enough to help me out, I'd love to hear what you want to see in the next chapter (Janiris-related or not). This will most likely be the only time that I can squeeze some of your ideas into my very lax planning, so get your requests in early if you have any. 
> 
> (I make no promises about fitting any/all suggestions in, but I'm down for the challenge. Hit me up.)

Liara catches up on her sleep on the way to Thessia.

When she wakes again it is with her nose buried in an unfamiliar smelling pillow. It is not an unpleasant scent, and she rolls into it, at first, attempting to place where she has smelled it before. Her hazy mind brings forth an image of a party, laughing purple lips, a neckline that has seared itself well into her memory, a gentle hand on her elbow, calling her attention. She lifts her head from the bed. She looks around the cabin. She confirms, to her horror, that she has dribbled on a Justicar’s pillowcase.

She blushes all the way into the bathroom, and cleans herself up.

There is no hint of Jane Shepard poking around the ship’s cabin, and it is not large enough for her to have hidden in any secret room. Liara wouldn’t feel overly comfortable looking for her, even if she had. Samara had been perfectly polite the night before, but how tight will she whip down with her Code, should she find Liara rooting through her closets?

Once she has made herself presentable, she slips back into her light cardigan and spends too long making the bed. She turns the pillow she’d been sleeping on over, and hopes for the best. Outside of the cabin, the ship looks as metallic and cramped as any she has been on; she finds her way to an elevator and sighs in relief when she finds the floor names and functions painted on the wall beside each button. The button to the second floor lights up beneath her finger and the doors close with that familiar metallic hiss.

Liara stews in near-silence until it arrives at her intended floor.

 

When the elevator has stopped its descent and the doors have reopened, Liara steps out into the CIC. It is filled with asari sitting at consoles and ship control stations, though very few of them actually turn to watch as she steps out. For a second, Liara’s stomach twists with the worry that neither Samara nor Shepard will be present.

Her worries are soothed when she hears a very distinct laugh. There is only one woman who Liara has heard laugh like the joke is entirely on her, and the further she walks the more she can see of her, leaning against the bridge with a similarly familiar figure. Shepard’s pose is relaxed, the Justicar’s stoic, both facing a grinning human who is sitting the wrong way in the pilot’s chair.

Recognition fills his eyes when they land on Liara, and he lets out a whistle so loud and obnoxious that half the CIC turns to watch as she approaches. “I think she’s here for you, Commander.”

Shepard turns with a grin, gesturing for Liara to come closer with a tilt of her head. “You’ve gotta stop calling me that,” she mutters, her fingers touching Liara’s hip once she stops beside her, but not lingering. “Sleep well?”

“Very,” Liara nods, turning briefly to Samara. “Thank you for lending me your cabin. You really didn’t need to go to so much trouble.”

Samara offers a small smile in acknowledgement, but does not disagree.

“So, you’re finally awake, huh? Did you guys tire each other out last night, or…?”

Liara turns to the pilot in surprise, but Shepard only sighs. “Liara,” she says, her tone long-suffering but amused, “meet Joker.”

“ _The_ Joker?”

“Hear that, Commander? I have a title now.”

“The one and only,” Shepard confirms.

“You’re piloting a Justicar’s ship?” Liara asks, wide eyes going between Joker and Samara.

“Piloting? Nah, I just like the seat.” He shifts his hips to make the point, and Shepard releases a sigh. Perhaps she should have given Liara some kind of warning before introducing the two.

“Mr. Moreau is filling in temporarily,” Samara informs her. “He was… quite insistent.”

“Well, I couldn’t disappoint the Commander, could I? I already missed her party.”

“And you didn’t even get me a present?”

“No, but I thought about putting some mistletoe up on the bridge for when you and your new girlfriend came down. Then I thought of what would happen if Samara stood beneath it with someone butt ugly and considered it an _injustice_ , and being thrown out of the airlock doesn’t register at all on my festive calendar. I reconsidered.”

“I appreciate that,” Shepard snorts.

“But if you really do want something, I’m sure I have a copy of _Vaenia_ somewhere that I no longer need…”

“Ew.”

“Poor word choice,” Joker concedes, and turns his attention to Liara. “So, _Liara_ , what has the Commander told you about me? All good things, I hope?”

“Of course. Let’s see… there was the story about that time you attempted to break into a shooting range while under the influence to,” she turns quickly to Shepard, “how did you put it? Hone your skills…?”

“Exactly,” Shepard nods.

Joker scoffs beneath his breath.

“And the time you broke a leg attempting to win a bet at a casino.”

“Fractured,” Joker corrects her. “In several places. That hurt like a bitch, too.” He turns to Shepard, offended. “How come you didn’t tell her all the cool stories? Like that time I single-handedly saved the _Normandy_ from batarian slavers?” He leans back in his chair, muttering, “Remind me to never let you wingman for me…”

“I did tell her,” Shepard says, grinning proudly at Liara (it looks like a warning wasn’t needed, after all).

Liara smiles back. “And I was impressed. Jane’s very fond of you.”

“Don’t tell him that, it’ll only go to his head.”

“You know it’s true, _Jane_.”

Before they can devolve into blowing raspberries at each other, Samara tilts her head towards the window and eyes the approaching skyline. Liara follows her gaze, watching their approach to a large and familiar space station. She had hardly realised just how close they were, and is almost sorry to have arrived so soon.

A voice crackles out from the console in front of Joker, and he quickly manoeuvres his chair the right way in order to answer it. While he awaits acceptance into the docking station, Shepard slips an arm around Liara’s back and leans in close, getting a better look of the landscape just beyond the window. Thessia is bright and beautiful outside; the city they’re docking in is silver and shining beneath the sun, and Shepard suddenly understands just why the asari refer to their home world as _the jewel of the galaxy_.

“You excited to be back?” she murmurs close to Liara’s ear.

“Very.” Liara turns to her with a demure smile. “Are you excited to meet my mother?”

Shepard snorts at the look on her face, the exaggerated fear in her voice, and bumps their hips together. Before she can give her own smart come back, however, the ship jerks and turns her attention queasily back to the window. They have docked, she realises, and runs her hand along Liara’s back before moving away. She turns to Samara, instead.

“Are you getting off?”

Samara shakes her head. “We’re not stopping.”

Shepard feels vaguely guilty for having asked her for a ride. If it was anyone other than Samara, perhaps she’d feel worse. The Justicar is not known for standing on obligation; if she didn’t want to make a pit stop, she would have more reason than most to reject the favour. Still, Shepard smiles in a way that is both apologetic and thankful as she says her goodbyes.

“I appreciate this,” she says again as she and Liara gather up their cases. “You’ll stay in touch, right?”

Samara offers nothing but a short, fond nod, and Shepard really has to wonder if it’s an agreement at all. Sometimes, it’s difficult to remember that all of her previous crewmembers still have jobs to do – that the Alliance, the rest of the galaxy, managed to carry on without her. She shakes it off. Samara squeezes her upper-arm in goodbye.

“It was a pleasure to meet you, Liara,” she says, her gaze shifting away from Shepard. “Enjoy the celebrations.”

“I’m sure we will,” Liara agrees. “Happy Janiris.”

Samara does not wave nor stand on ceremony once they depart. Shepard looks back once to see her ship slip past a window and out of the docking station, and shifts her luggage from one hand to the other. She turns to Liara and holds a hand out for one of her cases; Liara hands the lighter one over with a thankful smile.

 

“Where to now?” Shepard asks once they make it through customs.

“The T’Soni Estate,” Liara tells her, keying in a request for a skycar at a terminal. She steals a quick glance at Shepard and smiles before returning to the task at hand. “Don’t look so worried; my mother’s going to love you.”

“You say that with a lot of confidence.”

“I do,” Liara agrees, and then lifts her head. “This is our ride. Are you ready?”

Shepard spares the docking station behind her one final glance, and then nods. Her sigh is weary, but her heart is kick-drum heavy in her chest. “Ready,” she says, and carries their cases to the skycar.

 

When the skycar arrives, Shepard realises that _estate_ really is the right word for it.

The skycar stops just outside of a large manor, and it dawns on Shepard that the long, winding road that they have just driven up is a _driveway_. She feels the collar of her shirt too tight against her throat – her mouth is dry and itchy when she swallows. Liara, at least, shows not an ounce of nerves. Her stoic display is the only thing that keeps Shepard from second guessing her agreement to tag along to her Janiris celebration.

She grabs one of Liara’s cases with her own and surveys the elaborate building before her while Liara sends the skycar on its way. The grounds of the estate boast a good few acres, its trees perfectly primped even as they lose the last of their leaves. The architecture of the manor itself would be enough to give Shepard the weirdest boner, had she not felt so nervous. And had the right anatomy.

As it is, she stares up at the manor like she’s looking at her doom. Will Matriarch Benezia be generous enough to overlook her rumpled shirt and the dark circles beneath her eyes? Would she take one look at Shepard and request she hide in a closet while the rest of her esteemed family and friends arrive for the party?

Shepard really had not planned on drinking heavily a second night in a row, but she fears alcohol might be the only thing to get her through this alive.

Liara places a hand on her lower back, stepping up beside her and offering her a gentle smile, as though she knows exactly what thoughts are running through her head.

“She’s going to hate me, isn’t she?”

“Not at all,” Liara promises her, rubbing her back. “If anything, she’ll be far too pleased that I’ve returned home with a partner in tow, and will be on her best behaviour – if not attempt to outright bribe you into sticking around.” It’s said with a hint of amusement, but not even that can disguise the bitterness beneath. “As I said: she’ll love you.”

“You don’t bring many people back home, huh?”

“I’ve never brought anyone home, Jane,” Liara tells her, utterly sober, and Shepard’s smile fades with the gravity of the implication.

“That sounds very serious,” she whispers, joking still, but her lips are twitching again, a smile brimming up with the building pressure in her chest. Liara rolls her eyes at her, but her smile has always been a give-away, and it is no different now. “Are you very serious about me, Liara?”

“You know I am. Shall we go inside?”

Shepard grins and nods her head. “Sure.”

 

The interior of the manor is no less decadent than its outside. Shepard almost removes her boots before stepping past the front door, on instinct. She isn’t a touch surprised when Liara instructs her to leave her cases by the foot of the stairs; not ten seconds later, a pair of asari appear to take them to their rooms. Shepard watches their ascent until fingers at her wrist draw her attention away.

“My mother will likely be waiting within the conservatory,” Liara says, and Shepard follows her dutifully through room after room.

Liara’s brisk pace does not give Shepard enough time to thoroughly explore the series of winding corridors and rooms that they pass through. She follows a step behind her, and frowns in both concern and confusion when Liara stops dead outside of two large, glass-panel sliding doors. The room is large and light with tall ceiling lights, even as the sky outside turns grey. Liara’s gaze skims the space between the overgrown foliage, and Shepard suddenly understands where she gets her tastes from.

“You alright?” she murmurs, leaning in close. Liara turns to her in surprise. “Are we not going inside?”

“Oh,” and she looks back to the room, as though just considering it. “Yes, I suppose we should.”

“You’re nervous. How long has it been since you saw your mother?”

“Over a year.”

“And you… left on bad terms?”

Liara turns to her with a struggling expression. “I’m… well, I suppose we did. Our relationship has been… strained for a while.” Shepard suddenly looks concerned, but Liara is quick to take her hand and settle her nerves with a gentle squeeze. “It will be fine, don’t worry. I’m looking forward to seeing her, and she me… and you, as well, I’m sure.”

“I’m not about to face an inquisition, am I?”

“Doubtful,” Liara smirks. “But perhaps you should prepare your answers in advance, just in case.”

“Noted.”

She tugs on Shepard’s hand, again, and together they enter the conservatory.

A short walk into the room turns up only potted plants and hanging baskets. The overhead lights, Shepard suddenly realises, are designed to emit heat, turning the conservatory into a makeshift, elaborate greenhouse. She had dressed in preparation for the winter weather, and just about refrains from removing her sweater as they make their way towards the centre of the room. Flashing Liara’s mother would probably not set them off to the best start.

(Then again…)

Finally, a row of tall ferns gives way to a rounded, open space, and a tall asari bent at the hip with a watering can in one hand. She seems pleasantly oblivious to her audience, her focus intent on covering the plants before her with an even dousing of water. When she still does not look up seconds later, Liara clears her throat, and the woman straightens in surprise.

Sharp, blue eyes focus on Shepard before moving on to Liara, and a smile breaks the woman’s dark lips.

“Liara,” she says with obvious fondness, and sets the watering can down. “I was unsure when to expect you.”

“We’ve just arrived,” Liara says, for lack of anything else, and Shepard quickly steps in before the conversation can turn awkward.

“It’s my fault we’re late, actually,” she says, and that sharp, cool focus returns at once to her face. “I asked Liara to celebrate Christmas with me the night before, and she was kind enough to postpone her flight in order to make it.” She turns to Liara and sees the hints of a smile at her lips; she cannot restrain her own, even as the back of her neck prickles with the intensity of the Matriarch’s stare.

“I see.” Benezia’s eyes dart between the two of them. Shepard directs her best smile towards her. “I hope you’ll both have enough energy for tonight.”

“Not a problem,” Shepard grins, and Liara bites her lip to keep from laughing.

“We slept on the flight over,” she says, and steps forward finally to wrap her mother in a hug.

It is awkward, at first, as slim arms – so unfamiliar to what she has gotten used to lately – wrap around her and hold her too tight, but then discomfort gives way to familiarity. Benezia is soft and thin, but squeezes her back just as strong as anybody ever has. There is more to this greeting than _hello_. It is not the first time Liara has visited home after so long without seeing her mother, and it will not be the last, but the time apart is steadily growing longer, and the reunions shorter still.

Benezia tucks her face against her daughter’s crest and breathes her in, closes her eyes. The familiar scent invokes a strong memory of the first time that she held Liara to her face like this, her tiny arms beating against their own limited motor control, her head too large for her neck to support. It is delicate beneath Liara’s perfume, but it is _her_ , and slowly parting from Benezia now as Liara ducks her head and pulls carefully away.

Once she has extracted herself fully from the hug, Liara turns and smiles at Shepard.

“Mother,” she says, gesturing her forward, taking a hand in her own, “this is my partner, Jane Shepard.”

Benezia is softened by the hug. Her smile is watery and warm. She takes Shepard’s hand when it is offered, and her brow markings arch at the strength with which Shepard greets her. Once it has been released, she clenches and unclenches her own hand in a mock show of pain, and Shepard grins.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Shepard,” Benezia says, and Shepard does not correct her.

Does not tell her, _Jane’s fine_.

She shares a smile with Liara and offers, “And you. Thank you for letting me gatecrash tonight.”

Benezia’s eyes narrow at the term, and whether or not its definition is lost in translation, Shepard isn’t exactly sure. Still, her smile does not waver. They have the potential, she thinks, to get along famously just as long as she does not ask Shepard a single question about what it is she does with her life.

“Not at all,” Benezia shakes her head, and she and Liara share a telling look. “You’re both more than welcome here.”

When the look turns into a stare, Shepard clears her throat and touches a hand to the small of Liara’s back. It draws Liara’s attention, her wide, blue eyes skimming across to Shepard. At the look of concern on Jane’s face, she gives a subtle nod of her head and turns back towards her mother.

“We should make sure that our cases have found the right room,” she says, and Benezia nods as though she agrees, even if both of them understand the real reason for Liara wanting to slip away.

“Of course. Lunch will be at the usual time; you’re welcome to join me, unless you would rather eat out?”

“Thank you,” Liara answers before Shepard can say that, as long as there’s edible food, she’ll eat anywhere. She takes a step away as though to physically back herself out of the conversation, and Shepard hesitates before following suit. “We will be down later. I… would like to settle in, first.”

Liara is tense along the entire walk up to her old bedroom, her back ramrod straight and unresponsive to the hand that Shepard places there, both to offer comfort and to seek it. She follows quietly, takes in the sights with less enthusiasm and more worry. She falls into the old habit of securing exit routes – corridors to turn down, doors to avoid, windows to break, should it come to it.

It will not, she tells herself, and she believes it, but _still_.

When they reach Liara’s room, Shepard barely has time to take in the view before Liara covers her mouth with both hands. She stands with her back to Jane, facing a large window that overlooks the gardens. It is beginning to drizzle outside, rain coming down in fine sheets and making the grass shine. The window is the only source of light, and even that is dim and growing dimmer as the clouds thicken overhead.

Cautiously, Shepard steps up behind her. She paints a lonely silhouette against the window, and Shepard won’t let her stand like that alone, if she can help it. She presses her chest to Liara’s back and loops her arms around her middle, strokes the curve of her stomach, her hips, her ribs, while Liara breathes and rubs at her eyes.

Finally, something gives and the pressure against Shepard’s chest increases as Liara leans back into her, lowering her hands from her face and holding Shepard’s arms in place around her middle. Shepard nuzzles her shoulder, peeking over it and searching what she can see of her face. Liara is not crying, at least, but there is a hard, stricken look on her face that makes Shepard’s stomach hurt.

“That went well,” she says gently, coaxing a conversation out of Liara that she clearly does not want to have. “Didn’t it? Your mom seems so pleased to see you… and me? I didn’t make an ass out of myself somehow, did I?”

It wouldn’t surprise her if she had – unintentionally, of course. An error in translation. Still, Liara’s frown deepens at the suggestion. She turns in Shepard’s arms, cups her cheeks briefly and then slides her hands down to Shepard’s shoulders, shaking her head. “You didn’t,” she promises. “And she did seem pleased to see us.”

“That’s good,” Shepard says, like she needs Liara to elaborate on the truth of that statement. “What’s wrong?” Instead of answering, Liara dips her chin, her gaze somewhere along Shepard’s collarbone. She does not look up again, even as Shepard rubs soothing circles along her back, working the tension out of the muscles there. “Did you guys really argue when you last saw her…?”

“It’s not that,” Liara mutters quietly. “She seemed so _excited_ , Jane. Hopeful, even.” She shakes her head. “She’s going to pull me aside tonight and give me her blessing, I know it.”

“Her blessing?”

“Her _encouragement_ ,” Liara corrects, shaking her head like it does not matter, either way. She turns to Shepard with a distraught look in her eyes. “How long will that last, when she discovers that we’re… that I’m your _professor_?” She hisses the word out; it is as close to a curse as Shepard as ever heard come from her mouth. “Goddess, ignore me, I’m being irrational.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Is it so silly to still want her approval?” Liara asks, frowning, and Shepard shakes her head.

“She’s your mother. It’s completely normal.”

Liara hums in agreement and releases a sigh. “I’ve spent years going against my mother’s best wishes. I should be accustomed to her disapproval by now.”

“You don’t think you’re wishing this on yourself a little early?” Liara lifts her head in confusion. “Benezia doesn’t know how we met yet. It’s… incredibly unlikely that she would approve of our relationship if she did,” Liara makes a noncommittal noise of agreement, “so why put that stress on yourself?”

It takes her a moment to understand Shepard’s implication. When she does, Liara blinks in surprise.

“You want me to lie to my mother?”

“No,” Shepard hurries to say. “I mean, not lie exactly. Tell her we met through your work. She doesn’t have to know the specifics, does she?” Liara stares at her, uncertain. The idea brings a queasy feeling to her stomach, but she cannot deny the temptation to go through with the plan. Seeing her hesitance, however, Shepard as good as draws a line through the suggestion. “Or, you could just tell her, outright. We’re both responsible adults, we more or less know what we’re doing, and she doesn’t have to like that, but… she’s your mother.”

Liara nips at her bottom lip. “She is,” she agrees, but her eyes are tight at their corners. “But if she knew… I don’t think there will be many more extended invitations to Janiris parties.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m thinking.” She rubs at Liara’s back again and smiles. “But that’s okay. I’ve had to deal with people gunning for me since I joined the Alliance; I can handle your mother.”

The markings on Liara’s brow arch high at that, a smirk playing at her lips in spite of the conversation’s subject matter. “Is that so?” she asks, and Shepard scoffs at how disbelieving she sounds. “Have you ever faced an asari Matriarch before, Commander Shepard? Few humans have.”

“ _Few humans_ have the experience that I have…”

“Oh, really? Should I be worried that you’ll run off in a month’s time looking for somebody more adventurous and worldly…?”

“Mm-mm,” Shepard shakes her head, leaning in to brush her lips against Liara’s, “you have _nothing_ to worry about.”

Liara is the first to pull back, with a dull groan and narrowed eyes and, “stop distracting me, I’m _trying_ to worry.” Shepard laughs and tightens her arms briefly, swaying Liara into her and then letting her sway comfortably back again. The hands on her shoulders slide down to her arms, her elbows, fingers catching in the joint there, Liara’s thumbs lightly working the muscles. “I won’t say anything,” she says after a pause, “about how we met. There’s no sense in causing her any grievance over the matter.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am,” Liara nods. “Unless you would rather we come clean?”

She says the words with obvious distaste, and Shepard quickly shakes her head

“Have _you_ ever faced an asari Matriarch before?” she asks, with only a hint of exaggeration (Liara smiles despite herself). “Because I’ve met three in person, now, and two of them have already had me on my ass.” She looks suddenly thoughtful. “One, unintentionally. The other, not so much…”

“Then that’s settled,” Liara smirks, driving the conversation back from the digression. “We met on the university campus. It was all above-board and tremendously mundane; we had coffee and discussed long since dead civilisations.”

“Coincidentally,” Shepard adds, and Liara’s smile widens. “This feels a lot like going undercover. Should we have codenames?”

“Please stop,” Liara laughs, and Shepard kisses her again, until all of the tension in her body has eased.

“I know you’re not absolutely okay with this,” Shepard says, later. “I won’t blame you if you’d rather we just tell your mother now, and get the shit storm out of the way before it takes us by surprise.” Her gaze shifts between Liara’s eyes, searching for a sign that she would prefer this option, but finding nothing. “It’s your call.”

“I’ve made it. It’s… better this way.”

“And it won’t be forever.”

“Absolutely not,” Liara agrees.

“Just one more semester and then we’re free to just be Liara and Jane, two ordinary women just… living their tremendously mundane lives.”

“One more semester,” Liara repeats on a sigh. “You are awfully impatient, you know? Can you wait that long?”

Shepard scoffs in mock offence, but her smile is telling – the kiss that she plants, wet and loud, against Liara’s jaw even more so. “I can wait,” she promises, and nuzzles into the warm, dark space between Liara’s shoulder and her throat. She is lightly perfumed and perfect; Shepard cannot bring herself to pull away yet, and so she doesn’t. Liara moves her hands to her back, warm and soothing in large, slow circles that make Shepard never want to move again.

“Shall we get lunch?” Liara asks, eventually, daring to disturb the quiet. Shepard plants another kiss against her neck and lifts her head. She smiles soft and warm, and Liara’s eyes shine in return.

“Yeah,” she steps back, taking Liara’s hands in her own, “let’s eat.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before you begin reading, I’d like to say a huge thank you to everyone who helped me out by writing in ideas. You’ll see for yourselves which ones I have been able to include. An enormous thank you also goes out to dr-jekyl for letting me use her interpretation of Janiris. My take on the celebration is entirely derived from her wonderful meta. I encourage you all to read more of her writings over on tumblr and her AO3 account! 
> 
> I did originally intend to keep Janiris to one chapter, but it’s a lot to fit in. There will be some quick bits of exposition here and there to move things along, but otherwise I’m tackling this beast head-on in this chapter and the next. (You guys really want to see Aethyta and Aria, don’t you…?)

Lunch is a quiet if elaborate affair, held in a west-facing dining room on the ground floor of the manor. Shepard imagines the view from the windows could hold a spectacular sunset, if not obscured by thick cloud cover. Even now, this far north on the planet, the sky begins to darken in the far-reaching East in preparation for sundown.

Artificial lighting, as well as two tall candles in the centre of the table cloth, make up for the gloomy outside.

Shepard stares at the dining table in quiet awe as two uniformed asari exit the room with a serving cart between them. Fresh fruit, pastries, and cold meats have been lain out across the spread, sliced in preparation and in the immediate vicinity of twin gravy bowls. Shepard watches a server pour three glasses of what could be either wine or flavoured water, and wets her lips.

“Is your mother expecting more guests?” she asks, taking in the excess of platters.

“I don’t think so,” Liara says, scanning the room. When her gaze passes over the door at the far exit, it is in time to see Matriarch Benezia herself enter, dressed in pastel yellow with long, sleek gloves that end at the elbow. She carries herself with an air of authority, even here in her own home, and Liara smiles privately to herself when she notices Shepard standing ever so slightly straighter.

When Benezia spies the pair of them, a demure smile turns up her lips. She greets them mid-stride and gestures towards the table, which has been set up with two place-settings sitting directly opposite another. Liara reaches for a seat first and slides it further out from beneath the table before Shepard can help her into it. She wonders if human chivalry applies here – if Liara would not just look at her oddly and assume that she were attempting to steal the seat for herself, should she even try it.

She takes her own seat feeling slightly thrown off balance, and Liara offers her a quick, reassuring smile.

“This looks wonderful, mother,” she murmurs, taking in the spread.

“It does,” Shepard agrees, and lifts her eyes to their host. “This is a lot of food.”

An indulgent smile turns at Benezia’s lips – something so familiar that seeing it on anyone other than Liara sends a brief and sudden shock through Shepard. “Half of this food has been imported from Earth,” she says, indicating to one half of the table. “Liara tells me you yourself have no biotic abilities, Ms. Shepard. Thessian food is rich in element zero; I would advise you stick to this half of the spread.”

Shepard blinks at the explanation. She takes in the half-spread of food that has been imported especially for her, and feels her cheeks burn. “I – thank you.”

Benezia gives a curt nod and reaches for a pair of serving utensils. “Of course.”

She and Liara begin to fill their plates. Feeling slightly overwhelmed, Shepard follows suit. She gives herself too much, feeling near-guilty for having caused Liara’s mother what she perceives as an extra effort, and promises herself a very thorough workout upon returning home. If anyone notices her struggle to finish what’s on her plate, they at least grant her the kindness of not bringing it to attention.

 

Conversation throughout lunch is kept relatively light. Liara informs her mother of several changes within her life, reeling them off in a list, one right after the other, as though giving a formal report. For her part, Benezia listens intently and responds with the appropriate degrees of enthusiasm each time. Try as she might, however, there are only so many architectural articles that Liara can describe in various states of detail before she runs out of ammo.

No sooner has she given her mother the chance to speak, than Benezia takes  the opportunity to ask over Shepard. She begins by curiously mentioning the human colony that has grown around the university that Liara teaches at. Shepard cannot deny her the information even if she’d wanted to. She is dating her daughter; Benezia has every right to be both curious and cautious.

“I’m not sure it’s fair to call it a human colony anymore,” she says after a sip from her drink. It is sparkly and sweet, and tingles on her tongue long after she has set her glass back down again. “The community’s very diverse – the university more so. The fact that humans colonized the area first loses its importance when put up against the number of other races that make up its population.”

“Is that what brought you there?” Benezia asks, piercing a slice of cold meat on her fork. “The diversity?”

“Not really,” Shepard answers honestly. “I came specifically for the university, but the colony is definitely a bonus.”

“You haven’t lived among many other species before?”

“No, not for that reason. The opposite, in fact. I used to be in command of a large crew – turians, asari, quarians, krogan…  I’ve been part of all-human teams before, and not to insult any of them, but when you find yourself strictly among your own race, there’s a very large possibility that the people surrounding you are…”

“Ignorant?” Matriarch Benezia assists, and Liara’s utensils squeak against her plate.

“ _Mother_.”

“No, she’s right,” Shepard says quickly, glancing between the two of them before returning her gaze to Benezia. “We’re still relatively new to the rest of the galaxy. As a race, we come with an inherent caution towards other species, and that often manifests in prejudice. Not every human is that way, of course. I like to think whatever hang-ups I ever had were dealt with and smoothed out when I got to work so closely with so many different people.”

“Experience is often the best form of attack against prejudice,” Liara adds, and the two of them share a smile.

Benezia looks on, curious.

“When you mention your crew,” she begins, and Shepard draws her attention back towards her, “you’re referring to a military team?”

“That’s right. I was a Commander in the Alliance Navy up until around a year and a half ago.”

She returns her focus to her plate, cutting a square out of a piece of pastry that she would much rather eat with her hands. When no reply comes from Matriarch Benezia seconds later, Shepard lifts her head with a disquiet sense of foreboding. Benezia, she finds, is looking at Liara with a mixture of surprise and… something else.

“I see,” she says eventually, feeling Shepard’s gaze on her, and returns to her own plate. Shepard turns towards Liara with a look that asks, _what the fuck did I just do?_ “And the reason for your leaving?”

It is an intrusive question, too frank and too soon, and while Shepard cannot blame the woman for her curiosity (she is dating her only daughter, after all), the words are delivered in a tone that makes Shepard’s stomach squelch uncomfortably. She lowers her utensils and almost sighs in relief as soon as she makes the conscious decision to eat no more.

Beside her, Liara thrums with nervous energy, so potent that Shepard can almost fool herself into seeing little crackles of biotics flaring across her skin. Her own utensils have been lowered, her eyes sharp and wide and pinned to her mother as though to say, _that is none of your business_. Shepard thinks, for a moment, that Liara might jump to her defence again.

To save her the hassle, she answers simply, “Injury.”

Benezia holds her gaze up until an explanation is given, and then nods her head, accepting it as truth.

Liara relaxes into her seat again, and Shepard reaches for her drink.

 

“Your mother isn’t so hot on military types, is she?” Shepard asks later that day, nudging her elbow into Liara’s padded ribs.

She is wearing a warm, knee-length jacket that is so large that her entire body almost disappears into it. Shepard had opted for wool-insulated leather, something that doesn’t constrict movement around her hips but that can zip right up past her chin, if she wishes it. She keeps her hands stuffed into the deep pockets as they walk the gardens of the T’Soni estate; Liara’s, glove-covered and safe from the cold, hang freely by her side.

“She’s not,” Liara admits, her breath ghosting out of her mouth in visible wisps of white. She turns towards Shepard with a near-apologetic smile. “She is a strong advocate for peace – has been for as long as anyone can remember.”

“So am I?” Shepard tries, but Liara only shakes her head, not exactly disagreeing but _dismissing_. “That was the entire reason why I joined the Alliance to begin with, to make things a little less shitty for people who couldn’t protect themselves against violence and murder and… slavery.”

Liara links a hand through Shepard’s arm and offers a reassuring squeeze.

“I know, Jane, you don’t have to explain yourself to me. My mother is… While many would not go as far as to call the asari peaceful people, that is often the impression that we make. We win our wars through politics, through careful planning. We live such long lifespans, the thought of having to fight through every century is… exhausting.”

They come to a curve in the path that loops back around to the manor, but Liara stops them before they can continue on. Shepard looks to her expectantly, and Liara huddles closer against the cold that seeps in through her layers now that she’s no longer moving.

“My mother,” she continues, “has never believed in using violence in place of diplomacy and negotiation.”

“Sometimes, violence is all you have,” Shepard says, and Liara subtly nods her head, deferring to her judgement.

She slips her hand from Shepard’s arm and takes a step off-path, into the crunchy, frost-covered grass. Shepard hesitates a moment before following suit, and the ground cracks like brittle spaghetti beneath her boots. Liara trails a way ahead of her, leaving imprints in the frost, and Shepard does a quick jog to catch up.

“Where are we going?”

Liara turns to her with a gleeful smile. The cold has turned the tip of her nose purple; her freckles stand out stronger against the colour, and Shepard can’t help but match her grin at the sight. “To my favourite part of the garden,” Liara tells her, looping her arm back through Shepard’s and pulling her close.

They continue on, crunching through a modest orchard of bare, spirally trees, their branches black and grey and shimmering silver with the frost. Beyond the orchard, the grass opens up to a clearing, and at its centre a pond with water icy black and deep. The lingering touch of the Thessian winter makes the entire scene sparkle – would steal Shepard’s breath away, had she not seen the great spires of Illium, the haven of Eden Prime, the ruins of Tuchanka.

Just as Shepard thinks they will stop, Liara tugs her on further still.

“I was not always allowed down here, unsupervised,” she says, leading Shepard past the pond. “The water’s deep, and mother was always cautious.”

“Of course,” Shepard agrees, and Liara turns to her with that gleeful smile again. “But you came down here anyway.”

“Of course,” Liara parrots, and Shepard snorts a laugh. “The soil was always softest this side of the garden. There’s moss further down, it covers the entire ground, but it is not easy to dig through.”

“So you’re taking me to one of your secret excavation sites?”

“Perhaps,” Liara says, which means that she definitely is, and Shepard laughs again, breathy and visible around her face. She tucks Liara’s hand in tighter against her side and lets herself be led on, content with the quiet. In the distance behind them, the manor’s lights and lanterns are beginning to be lit, lighting the place up like a beacon that will guide them home again in the near-dark.

There is not so much as a sunset in the sky, as a gradual dimming from lighter to darker, denser grey. The thick cloud cover overhead promises a shower soon to come, and Shepard wonders if the sky will drop rain or snow. She makes a mental note of possible ways to persuade Liara back into the manor, should it get too dark before they set off, but for now she cannot deny her curiosity to see where they are heading.

It is cold, but not debilitatingly so, and Liara is warm and by her side.

When they stop, there is nothing special to mark the area bar a few small dips where the ground becomes noticeably uneven. Whatever holes Liara has dug up here in the past have been haphazardly filled back in, leaving only smooth ice-cream-scoop divots in the ground. Liara stands over them proudly, a look on her face that says she’s still partially surprised that any evidence of her childhood fancies remains.

She can go days, sometimes, without thinking of her archaeological career. She can go weeks without seeing the treasured artefacts littered throughout her home and thinking of those old ruins that have captivated her for the majority of her life. She has her name in print, in magazines and newspapers and on little plaque cards in museums, but it’s the sight of these little grooves in her mother’s garden that haunts her more than the rest.

Liara looks at them, now, and can barely believe that she was the one who carved them into the ground with her own two, small hands. Looking upon them feels like looking upon another life. Without context, she could mistake them for empty graves.

When she is silent for too long, lost in thought and memory, Shepard leans into her side. She slips her hand out of her pocket and wraps it tight around Liara’s back, instead. “So this is where the magic happened?” she murmurs against Liara’s crest, and that earns her an indulgent smile, at least.

“This is where my mother would often find me,” she agrees, “covered in dirt and with one of the gardener’s trowels.”

Shepard grins at the image. “I went through a digging-in-the-dirt phase, too. Didn’t last as long as yours, though…” Liara hip-bumps her at the jibe, and Shepard laughs and elaborates, “I liked worms. I was a worm kid. My dad used to say if I kept collecting them in cups, he’d take them fishing with him and use them for bait.”

She pulls a face at Liara, and Liara stares at her with open interest. It is not often that Shepard talks about her childhood without being prompted, and Liara revels in every piece of information that she manages to uncover. Jane often reminds her of those great, fractured structures that she used to dig out of the earth – carefully, with fine pointed tips and dusting brushes. Except Shepard is not an empty structure from a long dead civilisation; she’s very real, and she buries her secrets inside, where she’s soft and warm.

“He never did?” she asks, and Shepard smiles and shakes her head.

“Maggots, though,” she says, scrunching up her nose, “maggots were fair game.”

“Did you fish together?”

“Sometimes. I’ve never been patient enough for it— _don’t_ say a word,” she gets in quickly, and Liara bites her bottom lip to keep from laughing. “I’d play in the bushes and pick berries that I couldn’t eat, and he’d sit with his rod and catch nothing, usually. He’d never fish to eat, though. Always let me put them back, facing the current.”

She turns away from Liara with a bashful smile, and looks back through the orchard just beyond the pond. In the distance, the T’Soni estate twinkles as though it’s strung up with Christmas lights, and Shepard feels a knot form in her chest. She clears her throat and blinks the stinging cold from her eyes.

“Should we head back? It’s getting dark.”

“In a moment,” Liara tells her, and moves so that she is standing directly in front of Shepard, both arms wrapped around her middle to stave off the cold. “Are you warm enough?”

“For now.”

“Jane,” Liara says, and tilts her head up to see her, “have you ever celebrated Janiris before?”

Shepard gets the distinct impression that she’s being asked another question here. She stares at Liara for a moment, withholding her answer while attempting to figure out Liara’s intentions. When her expression does not give it away, she finally says, “Not really, no. I’ve seen it – I mean, I’ve been caught up in street festivals before. But I get the impression that this Janiris won’t be like that?”

“Not entirely,” Liara agrees. “My mother’s quite traditional when it comes to Janiris, although others take it far more seriously, still. It’s a tri-fold holiday, beginning at midnight tonight and ending in three days’ time. Guests will begin arriving tomorrow to honour the end of winter, offer sacrifices for a successful harvest, and celebrate our fertility.”

“Sacrifices?”

“Mm,” Liara nods. “Though I use the word lightly, don’t worry. There will be no spilling of blood in the name of Janiri.”

Shepard slowly nods her head. “Good to hear.”

“There will be… some fasting and feasting, and while we encourage our guests to join in, we wouldn’t be offended if you would prefer not to.” She looks up at Shepard with wide, reassuring eyes. Shepard all but falls into them. “There will be food provided for those who wish to eat.”

“No, I’ll fast,” Shepard says quickly. “I want to experience this with you – properly.”

Liara leans heavily into her chest, lips turning up in a quick, bright smile. “Okay,” she says, and rubs her hands along Shepard’s back. “The rest shouldn’t concern you. Lots of dancing, eating, and drinking… By the final day, most people are less enthusiastic about the celebrations, but we’re encouraged to spend this time with those closest to us – family, bondmates, partners – before the festival is over and we have to return to the mundane every day.”

“Remind me to go easy on the drink,” Shepard smirks. The idea of a three day long party might have interested her, once upon a time, but she’s grown almost _sensible_ with age, and she’s still feeling the remnants of a hangover from the night before. “I want to be able to remember this holiday.”

Liara sends her a knowing smile. “I have a feeling I won’t have to remind you at all.”

“Probably true,” Shepard concedes. Liara’s cheeks are purpling with the cold, now, the colour bright even in the fading light. “You look like you’re freezing,” she murmurs, and leans down to press lingering kisses to each of Liara’s cheeks. Liara closes her eyes against them and smiles. “We should get indoors.”

“We should,” Liara agrees, even as she leans in and presses cool lips against Jane’s. Shepard tightens her arms around her, squeezing their bodies together. Liara’s thick jacket makes it difficult for her to feel anything but her solid presence, but she clings to her anyway, sighing gently when Liara’s tongue parts her lips.

The kiss warms her up from the inside out. When Shepard pulls back again, there is a glazed look in Liara’s eyes and colour in her cheeks that isn’t entirely down to the cold.

 

Later, Shepard sits on the edge of Liara’s bed to pull off her socks.

Her stomach is full with hot food and good drinks – dinner was a small feast, by any standard – and her body feels heavy and weary. She watches, eyelids drooping, as Liara patters around barefoot, gathering her nightwear and two separate bath robes. “Are you sure you don’t want to go first?” Shepard asks, balling her socks together and tossing them into her open case.

“The bath’s already run,” Liara tells her. “I’ll shower after you. Take as long as you need.”

So Shepard rolls up the leg of her trousers and begins the careful detachment of her prosthesis. Liara watches on, curious, thoughts whirring around _sensation transmitters_ and _electronic nerve pulses_. She hesitates and then changes direction, moving towards Shepard’s bag. A shiny, folded-up crutch has been set aside for moments like this, and Liara sets her robes down to pick it up. It takes a little while to understand how the stick clicks in together, but after figuring the pattern out, the crutch assembles relatively quickly.

She hands it across to Shepard with a, “Do you need anything else?”

“Can you hand me that clear bag there, please?”

“Of course.”

Liara takes the clear plastic bag from Shepard’s case, filled with little bottles and a toothbrush, and hands it across as well. “Shampoo and conditioner,” Shepard explains, giving the bag a demonstrative shake as she pushes herself up from the bed. “I figured you wouldn’t have any of that here.”

“Good call,” Liara smirks. “Though my mother usually prepares well for Janiris. Many people bring their bondmates with them, and she’s too proud a host to not accommodate them all perfectly.”

“Noted.”

 

Shepard does not linger in the bath.

She stays long enough to clean her body and ease the tense muscles in her shoulders before emptying the water. Liara’s en suite puts her own to shame (it’s less of an embarrassment, she finds, when she’s already expecting it), but Shepard still misses her dingy little bathroom with all of its appropriately placed handles and bars.

She folds herself into a towel and sits on the closed toilet lid to dress in a rare pare of matching, full-length pyjamas. When she leaves the bathroom again, she finds Liara in her robe and little else, smiling at her wardrobe choice. Shepard just about manages to form words. “Bathroom’s all yours,” she says, making her way to the bed, and Liara slips gracefully past her.

While she’s gone, Shepard reclines on the bed with one pyjama leg rolled up, letting the air dry whatever moisture is left on her residual limb. The bed is perfectly firm beneath her, and the drone of the shower soothes her nerves in a way that most regular background noises do. In the few instances that the noise becomes irregular, Shepard imagines Liara shifting around beneath the spray, moving in and out of it in order to grab the appropriate bottles.

She closes her eyes against the image, too exhausted to chide herself, and gives into a fantasy where she walks naked into the shower behind Liara, just like in the vids. In reality, she’d likely slip and fall and injure at least herself, if not Liara too. The impossibility of the fantasy makes it a safe one, even if a part of her burns with an old and complicated resentment.

It takes Liara almost ten minutes to leave the bathroom once the shower has stopped running. She emerges again flushed and sweet-smelling, like a summer bluebell. One of those robes has been wrapped around her, and her pyjama pants poke out from beneath. Shepard suspects she is freshly moisturised, if the shine in her cheeks is any indication.

“What time is it?” Liara asks as she deposits her clothes down a laundry shoot.

Shepard peels onto her side in order to find the digital clock on Liara’s bedside table. “Close to midnight.” She feels the distinct drag of jetlag, now that she’s acknowledged the late hour, and has to repress a yawn. Across the room, Liara slips her feet into a pair of slippers and casts her a sympathetic glance. Shepard looks at her oddly. “Are you going somewhere?”

“Downstairs,” Liara confirms.

“You’re _still_ hungry?”

“Har-har.” Liara perches on the edge of the bed near Shepard’s feet, facing her. “No. There are candles to be lit to mark the beginning of Janiris. It’s tradition.” She glances down at Shepard’s exposed right knee, and purses her lips. “Would you prefer to stay up here? I’ll explain to my mother—”

“No, no.” The thought of tarnishing her already fragile acquaintanceship with Benezia has Shepard quickly sitting up. “I’ll come. Unless you want to do this with your mother? I don’t want to… intrude on anything.”

“You wouldn’t be intruding at all.”

“Alright then, give me five minutes?”

“We have exactly seven,” Liara announces, checking the bedside table clock for herself, and Jane reaches for her crutch.

Downstairs, lamps have been lit to keep the staircase and the ground floor in relative illumination. Liara and Shepard follow them like a guide, down corridors and into a large, dark kitchen. As soon as they enter the room, Shepard doubts Liara’s intentions. She touches a hand to her elbow and looks at her as though to ask, _what are we really doing here?_

Liara only smiles at her and opens a door to the garden.

As soon as the panels slide open, the noise of several whispering voices can be heard. A crowd of Benezia’s house staff huddles together in various states of dress – some having come in robes similar to the ones that Liara and Shepard are wrapped up in, some in large boots and coats, and others with nothing but their crossed arms against their pyjamad chests to protect them from the cold.

Shepard takes in the crowd with surprise, while Liara only loops their arms together and brings her closer to the front. The new position gives them a perfect view of Matriarch Benezia, a striking figure even in a puffy white robe and silk slippers on her feet. The breath ghosts out of her when she speaks, the clap of her hands sharp like metal on stone when she gathers the crowd’s attention.

When her eyes glide over to Liara and Shepard, she shows a special little smile reserved only for them.

“Welcome,” Benezia begins, and Shepard attempts to follow the speech that comes next. She has dabbled with religion in the past – she has begged and raged against gods and goddesses alike – but has long since accepted that she is content with the mysteries that the universe provides. She is a bystander here, content and respectful, but her stomach flutters when she turns to Liara and observes the _happiness_ on her face.

Religion is not a topic often raised between them, and now Shepard finds herself intensively curious about Liara’s beliefs. Before she has a chance to look away, Benezia’s speech trills off with a reverent, “Blessed be.” The crowd surrounding Shepard answers in perfect harmony, sending a chill down her spine: “ _blessed be_.”

Liara’s voice is the only one that stands out from the thick of it, sweet and lilting by Shepard’s side. She meets Jane’s eyes once Benezia has finished her speech, and smiles. She takes one of Shepard’s hands in hers, linking their fingers together, and draws them up close to her chest. Their hands are equally cold, brittle and a little numb, and Liara works on rubbing some feeling back into them before giving Shepard a soft tug forward.

“This way,” she whispers as an aside, and Shepard lets herself be led closer to a little altar behind where Benezia delivered her speech.

On the altar, three virgin candles stand in a perfect triangle, one yellow, one red, and one green. At their centre, a solitary, smaller white candle stands. The head of Benezia’s house staff steps forward, removing her hands from her coat pockets, and joins the three of them by the altar. Shepard watches curiously as Matriarch Benezia produces a small box of matches. She strikes one against the sandpaper and sparks a match, bringing the light to the green candle before shaking out the flame.

She takes the lit candle in hand, and her head of staff takes up the red, holding it still and abreast while Benezia touches their wicks together, passing on the flame. Again, Shepard follows the ceremony with a watchful expression, retaining little of the speech that follows. “I honour you with wisdom and guidance,” Benezia finally says, loud enough for the crowd behind them to hear, and draws her candle back.  A new flame burns on the red candle, and Liara takes up the yellow one in order to further the ceremony. Once she is ready, the head of staff touches their wicks together.

“I honour you with love and strength,” the matron says, and pulls her candle back before the melting wax can drip onto Liara’s sleeve.

With her lit candle in hand, Liara touches its flame to the wick of the solitary white candle, and finishes their ceremony. “I bless you with fertility and pleasure. Blessed be.”

“Blessed be,” Shepard murmurs along with the crowd, and the candles are replaced.

 

By the time the congregation breaks up, Shepard is having to muffle yawns in the sleeve of her borrowed robe. The water that fills her eyes each time stings in the cold, and Liara huddles closer with an arm looped through her own, sharing her body heat. Shepard appreciates the gesture.

They linger a while outside while people lay their offerings at the altar. Some bring flowers, others food and drinks. When Shepard asks why Liara has nothing to offer, she is told that _there is still time_. With three days of celebrations ahead of them, Shepard really cannot argue with that.

Standing tall and alone, Matriarch Benezia observes the offerings and bids the final members of her house staff goodnight. Liara and Shepard are among the last of them, and at one plaintive look from her mother, Liara unwraps herself from Shepard’s side and steps forward, into her arms.

This embrace is almost as long as their initial greeting earlier that afternoon, and Shepard feels no less uncomfortable for baring witness to it – for intruding upon the moment. She slips her hands into the robe’s flimsy pockets and shivers, keenly missing Liara’s heat. Still, her eyes linger on the pair, touched by the gesture. She hears the faint mutterings of a conversation, too quiet for her to make out, and then the hug breaks up. 

Benezia takes her daughter’s cheeks between her hands and presses a kiss to her forehead.

“Goodnight, mother.”

“Goodnight, Little Wing.”

And if Shepard’s heart doesn’t just melt…

Once she is released, Liara turns to Shepard with a wide, watery smile. She looks soft and young, and Shepard gladly takes her hand when Liara offers it. She stands in place while Liara steps up beside her, and then they begin the short walk back into the warmth of the kitchen. They linger a while after the door has been closed and locked, and Benezia turns to them with a smile.

“Rest now,” she tells the pair of them, “you’ll need your energy for the morning.”

Shepard wants to say that it’s simple well wishing, but the emphasis that Benezia puts on _resting_ and _conserving energy_ makes her wonder… She catches the Matriarch’s eye and almost shivers at the very knowing expression that she finds there. It says, _break her heart and see how fast I can shove my entire fist up your ass_. Shepard is not unfamiliar with that look.

“Goodnight,” she croaks out, and tries to make her face show something vaguely reassuring.

Liara, pleasantly oblivious, leads her back to bed.

 

“I don’t think your mother’s sure what to make of me,” Shepard says once they have returned to the bedroom, her borrowed robe discarded across a desk chair. Liara removes her own and takes the time to return both to her closet. She spares Shepard a glance over one shoulder, the markings above her eyes rising indulgently, permitting her to go on. “I think she’d prefer you were with someone who didn’t have my… history.” 

“Mm… you could be right,” Liara says, closing her closet doors. “Though, I think this is simply my turn to comfort you. Or, at least, inform you that you’re worrying too much.”

“I’d prefer the comforting.”

“I’ll remember that.”

The mattress dips and jostles when Liara kneels on the bed and crawls up behind Shepard. She is still sitting on the edge of her bed, both feet planted firmly on the ground, and although Liara is deathly tired she presses a string of kisses along Shepard’s throat, red hair tickling her nose. Jane hums at the sensation.

“Seriously,” she says, voice turning throaty. “I don’t think she likes me.”

“Jane,” Liara sighs, moving further around her body until she can see her face. She smiles and brushes the hair back from her eyes, only for it to fall in front of them again almost instantly. “You have to understand that she has never had this before; there has never been anyone for her to interrogate and threaten and cajole into not breaking my heart before.”

“I thought you said she was an advocate for peace…”

Liara’s lips twitch, though Shepard’s heart is hummingbird-quick inside her chest. “She’s making up for lost time, but she’s happy for us.” She slips closer again, pressing a kiss to Shepard’s shoulder through her pyjama shirt. “And even if she wasn’t,” she murmurs, tilting her eyes up to capture Shepard’s gaze, “I’m still very fond of you…”

“We’d have a problem if you weren’t.”

She leans forward for a proper kiss, and Liara gladly welcomes her in.

When she pulls back again, Liara opens her mouth to suggest Jane remove her prosthesis and get into bed, when a thought occurs. She hesitates and closes her mouth again, and then shifts on the bed so that she can mirror Shepard’s position, her back straight, both feet on the ground. Shepard’s brow crinkles in concern.

“You have your Business Face on,” she says, and Liara nips at her own bottom lip.

“There are plenty of spare rooms here,” she says carefully, watching Shepard’s face for any sudden tell. “Would you prefer your own bed for the night?”

It doesn’t have to just be for this night, Liara’s concerned expression tells her, and something warm and tight swells inside of Shepard’s chest. It is uncomfortable, but, Shepard realises, the feeling is not born from discomfort. When she imagines her future with Liara, she pictures a shared bedroom, a shared bed – she pictures Liara asleep in her arms, both of them in various states of undress.

She wants it more than she has wanted most things, and Liara has given her no indication that she does not want the same. And to get there? Well. Liara will have to grow accustomed to her irregular sleeping habits, to love her even when she kicks and fits and has to sleep on the sofa or in a spare bedroom because she does not trust herself to spend the night with another soft body in the bed beside her.

 _And if she doesn’t,_ a little voice at the back of Shepard’s mind thinks, _if she_ can’t…

She pushes a metaphorical cork in that thought trail, cutting it off early. She will not know, either way, unless she gives Liara a chance.

“This is fine,” she says, eventually, and Liara’s concern eases into reassurance with the blink of her big, blue eyes. “I’d like to stay here.”

Liara places a palm against Shepard’s cheek, stroking her thumb along the gentle ridge of a cheekbone. “I’d like you to stay here, too,” she says, and kisses her. Just as Shepard attempts to deepen the kiss, Liara pulls back, quickly adding, “But if you ever do want your own space, just say so and—”

“Li,” Shepard cuts in, her smile gentling the interruption. She takes Liara’s face in her hands and wets her bottom lip. “I appreciate that a lot,” she promises, “but I _really_ want to stay.”

“But if you ever do need your own bed…”

“Then I’ll ask for it,” Shepard reassures her.

Liara blinks across at her, a faint flush deepening the colour of her cheeks. Shepard has never thought of blue as a warm colour before, but that’s what she thinks of, now, and every other time that she brings that gentle blush out beneath Liara’s freckles. “Okay,” Liara tells her, and tilts her chin up in subtle askance. Shepard is briefly mesmerised by the look of longing in her eyes.

“All I want tonight is to fall asleep beside you, no interruptions.”

“No bony quarian elbow in your ribs,” Liara grins, and Shepard laughs her way into a kiss.

“Please,” she murmurs, pulling back only long enough to get her words out, “no more of _that_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hands up, I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing with asari religion. Or any religion. I’ve (respectfully, I hope) stolen and built on pieces from pagan blessings and Jewish Shabbat candles, I’m sorry. (I’m also sorry for how awkward that section was. I didn’t have the energy to be very creative with this one.)
> 
> Edit: AO3 has been lagging pretty badly for the past few days and it's making replying to any comments near-impossible, but seriously thank you for writing in with your thoughts and encouragements. It's very appreciated.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eesh, I’m sorry it’s taken me this long to get this chapter up. I wanted it banged out straight after the last, but this week has been a nightmare and I’ve had no time to write. I should be back on track with regular updates now, I hope. And, okay. I couldn’t quite justify inviting Aria to Benezia’s Janiris celebration (like, I don’t even think she’d want to crash it?), but I’ve given you a hint of something else, to make up for it… Clue: look out for the purple!

Shepard wakes like a starving dog – suddenly, sparking up from her pillow, blinking blearily and taking in her surroundings with an accusatory glare and a growl in the back of her throat, lips curled back and ready to hurl it out at whatever had disturbed her.

Seconds later, the reason for her abrupt awakening makes itself abundantly clear. Her stomach lets out a squelching yelp that vibrates through her entire torso, and Shepard rolls onto her front with a muffled groan, pressing her stomach into the mattress in the hopes that that will soothe its ache. She is not familiar with fasting, and it had shown – particularly, the night before, when her fatigue had set off a pulsing pain from the bend in her right hip, straight down into the toes that she no longer has.

Matriarch Benezia’s guests had begun to arrive in the early evening, bringing with them warm greetings and well wishes. Shepard had crept back upstairs before too long, postponing introductions in favour of slipping out of her prosthesis and lying spread-eagle on the bed. She had insisted Liara remain downstairs, and she had, up until a little before midnight when she had slipped into the bedroom with a tray of milk and biscuits.

Shepard had almost cried.

The second Shepard rolls away from her this morning, Liara’s body presses up against her back, filling the space there like she’s made of liquid. She is warm; she makes Shepard too warm, and she struggles to kick the duvet off her front to even out the temperature. Her movement rouses Liara again, who stretches and whimpers and yawns against her shoulder.

When Shepard turns around, Liara is blinking sleepily and smiling, already, and any discomfort Shepard was feeling eases effortlessly out of her body. “Good morning,” Liara murmurs, slipping a leg comfortably between Shepard’s. She works a hand out of the duvet and her smile grows when she pushes the mussed strands of Shepard’s hair back behind her ear. “Did you sleep well?”

“Very well.” She closes her eyes against Liara’s touch, and sleep drags at her consciousness again. “Did you?”

Liara makes a noise of agreement (or simple content) and continues to thread her fingers through Shepard’s hair – carefully, once she discovers that it has knotted in the night. Shepard purrs beneath her attention, but before it can ease her back into sleep, her stomach makes its discomfort obnoxiously obvious.

When Shepard opens her eyes again, Liara is staring at her with a mixture of amusement and concern.

“You’re hungry.”

“Ravenous. How are you not?”

“I hide it well.” Shepard huffs as though to say otherwise, but her stomach twists and grumbles again before she can speak. “Come on,” Liara tells her, sliding her hand down from Shepard’s hair and rubbing her hip through the covers. “Get dressed and we’ll breakfast.” As soon as she leaves the bed, all of the warmth surrounding Shepard departs, and the idea of falling asleep again is suddenly much less appealing. She sits up and stretches, muffling a yawn behind the back of her hand.

“Yes, please.”

 

Downstairs, lamps have been lit to compensate for the dark pre-dawn.

The T’Soni Estate is awash with low chatter and the distinct, high-pitched shriek of laughing children. Liara and Shepard emerge from the staircase with bright eyes and hungry stomachs. When Liara leads Shepard into a large dining room filled with three long tables, and one vaguely shorter one, Shepard is suddenly glad that she’d bothered to brush her hair.

There are not _as many_ asari as Shepard predicted. Sitting among them are an abundance of different races, and Shepard breathes a little easier when she counts at least ten humans among the first table of breakfasters that they see. Liara guides her to the shortest table with a hand at her wrist, gently urging her forward. Her mother sits at the head of it, deep in conversation with the asari to her left who has a small, purple bundle nursing from her breast.

Liara takes a seat at her mother’s right, Shepard beside her, and they waste no time in filling their plates.

Shepard is busy filling a glass with orange juice when a throaty voice catches her attention. “Good morning, Liara,” Shepard hears, each syllable perfectly pronounced, and her stomach twists with anxiety. Shepard recognises that voice, as sleep-addled as it is. She lifts her gaze comically quickly, but her attention goes unnoticed while Liara picks up a conversation with the asari at her mother’s left.

The asari whose face it would be difficult _not_ to recognise, as prolific as her image has been for the past however many centuries.

 _Well, fuck_.

Shepard attempts to swallow down her surprise with a large gulp of orange juice. She had been averting her eyes from the nursing asari, having brought her very human ideas of social etiquette to the breakfast table with her. Now, watching Liara and her mother engage the bare-chested asari in conversation with open enthusiasm, she feels a lick of foolishness crawl up her warm cheeks. She sets her fork down too loudly and all at once Liara turns to her, touching a hand to her arm.

“And of course you know Councillor Tevos,” she says, and Shepard nods her head.

“Of course, happy Janiris.”

She offers a meek smile, and the councillor blinks in sudden recognition.

“Commander Shepard,” she starts, and her back almost instantly straightens before she can stop herself – can remind herself that she is celebrating, enjoying a deserved break from work, and ease back into her seat. She shifts the toddler against her chest as she resettles, rubbing one hand along her back.

“Not Commander anymore,” Shepard reminds her.

“Of course, my apologies.”

Shepard makes a dismissive noise, and Councillor Tevos does her the favour of withholding whatever pity she feels for Shepard’s situation from her expression. “Don’t worry about it.” She glances across to Liara and smiles at the look of surprise on her face. “I landed on my feet, so to speak.”

“You know each other?” Liara asks, and even Benezia is watching her closer, now, awaiting an answer. “You never said.”

“We never actually met in person…”

“Commander Shepard was shortlisted to become the first human Spectre,” Tevos explains, and Liara’s wide eyes go back and forth between them. Shepard can offer little more than a meek shrug under the weight of her gaze. “Your service record was very impressive,” Tevos tells her, perhaps sensing the tension in the air and wanting to quickly defuse it. “Councillor Udina often speaks of you as though you’re still awaiting the promotion.”

“He’s still as sour and bad-tempered as ever, then,” Shepard smirks, and while Tevos does not verbally agree, a hint of a smile remains at the corners of her lips throughout breakfast.

 

 

 

Later, Shepard finds herself alone with a drink in hand.

It is late and she is tired, and she has not seen Liara for all of twenty minutes.

She is not sorry for it.

She’s been glued to Liara’s side for two straight days, and while she’s enjoyed every second of it (her fasting aches notwithstanding), she hasn’t been given much of an opportunity to scope out the mass of guests that have gathered at the T’Soni Estate. Aside from breakfast with the Asari Councillor, Shepard does not recognise a single face in the crowd, bar Liara’s, her mother’s, and the few serving girls who had attended the midnight candle ceremony, and who now teeter around with trays and the standard waitressing smiles that seem to translate no matter the race of the individual wearing them.

She stands with her weight on her left leg, hip cocked and a hand crossed around her middle. The other holds her wine glass up by her cheek. She has picked an area away from the buffet tables, near the edge of the room where is both within and without the celebrations, to observe the scene. The music is loud but not obnoxious, though Shepard thinks her ruined eardrums could weather anything right about now.

From her vantage point, she has a clear view of a table of diplomats discussing galactic policies with sweeping, animated gestures, and a gaggle of bare-chested dancers in silks and scarves, performing a very _asari_ routine for Matriarch Benezia’s guests’ entertainment. Shepard takes another small sip from her glass.

Even with all that there is to see, however, Shepard's gaze returns to Councillor Tevos more than once (though her title has been spoken only twice since breakfast, and one of those mentions came from herself).

(“I didn’t know Councillor Tevos had a child,” she had whispered to Liara after leaving the breakfast table. “Who’s the other parent?”

“Oh,” Liara had said, and smiled in a way that made her eyes twinkle with both amusement and regret, “we don’t ask.”)

The Councillor is among an asari-turian group, her daughter being passed from one person to another with a sour look on her plump, purple face. At one point she is pressed to a shoulder, and looks over it at Shepard with a fierce scowl. Shepard experiences a hazy sense of recognition, though cannot place where she has seen that look before…

“They’re always a handful, at that age,” someone says in her ear, and Shepard has to stop herself from squeaking when she turns, wide-eyed and skittish, towards Matriarch Benezia herself. “I couldn’t take my eyes off Liara for one second, otherwise she’d be halfway down the garden, terrorising my flowerbeds.”

Shepard grins at the mental image. “She’s not afraid to get her hands dirty.”

“That she is not.” Benezia’s gaze sweeps out across the room, and Shepard mirrors the gesture, subconsciously searching for Liara. “She has taken you out into the garden,” Benezia continues, her gaze returning to Shepard. “What did you think?”

“Of the garden…? Oh, it’s beautiful. Very spacious.”

She blinks, frowning, and the peaceful smile that Benezia has been wearing all day broadens, just a fraction.

“Of her budding archaeological career.”

Shepard thinks back to those little, ice-cream-scoop divots in the ground, and nods.

“I think she misses it,” she says, so honestly that she worries, for a moment, that she should have filtered her response through her thoughts before blurting it out. Her gaze remains on Benezia, and Benezia holds it, hard and unblinking; Shepard cannot look away, even as her cheeks colour baby pink.

She attempts to open her mouth, blurt something else out that will soften Benezia’s gaze once more. She is standing beside the woman who has helplessly attempted to urge her daughter away from dig sites and into something more _appropriate_ , and Shepard has more than enough reason to worry that, should Benezia shift their conversation in _that_ direction, Shepard will not be able to stop herself from causing a scene.

Benezia seems to grasp the intent in Shepard’s gaze, and a spark of surprise has her brow subtly rising. She looks straight ahead, again, finally releasing Shepard’s stare. While her gaze turns outwards across the room, Shepard rubs at the back of her neck and glances away, her shoulders sagging.

“I think so, too.”

 _Wait_.

Shepard’s gaze swings back towards Benezia, and she can feel herself frowning, even as she tries to will it away. When Benezia looks at her, spots her expression, her smile widens again.

“I’m sure Liara has told you just how long it has been since we last saw each other in person,” she says, and her gaze is softer, now, easier for Shepard to hold without the urge to look away, “but I am her mother, still. I know her.” She takes a sobering breath and dips her chin. “I… admit that I tried to influence her towards a more political future. You’ve witnessed the dangers of the galaxy first hand, Ms. Shepard. You know what’s out there. I didn’t want my daughter travelling alone to remote excavation sites, and I don’t think that makes me a bad mother.”

Shepard shakes her head. _No_ , she thinks, feeling that same swell of panic, of wanting to protect Liara from all of the shit that she’s had to bear witness to, _that doesn’t make you a bad mother_.

“You were never going to stop her,” she finds herself saying, and _if you know her half as well as you say you do…_ but, that isn’t fair. She cuts those words off before she can really take a hold of them. She thinks Benezia will turn sour with this new turn in conversation, but instead that same, fond smile turns at her lips.

“You’re very right.”

Her gaze turns back out to the sprawling, purple toddler as she lets out a piercing shriek; the turian holding her out at arm’s length passes her quickly back to her mother, and the child returns to contented silence. The crowd surrounding Tevos let out tittering laughs at the display, and Benezia returns her gaze to Shepard.

“She is very wilful,” she says, and Shepard nods in agreement. “It should no longer surprise me. She makes a great many choices that continue to… shock me, still.”

She looks pointedly towards Shepard, and Shepard feels her gut burn with sudden and very real indignation.

“I’m not just another way for her to rebel against her mother,” she says, too sharply, but Benezia only holds her gaze.

This is not something that she is insecure about – it isn’t – but the implication still burns like bile up her throat. She swallows it down again, remembers Liara’s words: _my mother has never believed in using violence in place of diplomacy and negotiation_. She takes a deep breath.

“You shouldn’t be surprised,” she says, eventually, coolly and calmly digging her own grave, she thinks. If Liara were within hearing distance, she would probably unload those infamous asari biotics on her ass. Shepard doubts she’d blame her, all things considered. “Like you said, you’re her mother. Liara doesn’t do things by halves. When she’s committed to something, she’s _committed to something_.”

“And she’s committed to you?” Benezia asks, her tone suggesting genuine curiosity, though Shepard still feels vaguely belittled. “You’re committed to each other?”

And again, right here, her fight or flight instinct tugs at her feet – pins one firmly to the ground and pulls the other in the direction of the stairs, a doorway, an open or closed window. In the end, it shouldn’t be a surprise that she stands and fights, even with all the terrifying implications that surround the word _committed_.

“Yes,” she says quickly, sharply, barks it out and juts out her chin like she is proud and invincible, even as she is being stared down by an asari Matriarch who could warp her body inside out with barely any effort. “Yeah, we’re committed.” It isn’t a lie – doesn’t even taste like one as it rolls off her tongue. “I’m very committed.”

Benezia holds her gaze for a moment longer, silently judging the weight of her words, and then nods.

“I think you’ve misunderstood my intentions tonight,” she says softly, all still-lake calmness while Shepard’s insides churn like great, crashing waves. “I do not disapprove of your relationship, but I had my concerns. You can understand that, can’t you, Ms. Shepard?”

Shepard blinks but does not disagree.

“I… suppose I can,” she says, haltingly. The conversation has very quickly ran away from her, and she is unsure of where she stands. “Does this mean you no longer have concerns…?”

“There will _always_ be concerns. However,” Shepard clings to that word, surprising herself with the ferocity of her need for acceptance, “I have faith in Liara. She has chosen you, Ms. Shepard, and I can trust her judgement. If Liara can love you,” she pauses long enough to read the surprise on Shepard’s face, “then I can certainly accept you into our family.”

It is too formal and it leaves Shepard choking, even as Benezia smiles and dips her head and physically bows out of the conversation to mingle with her other guests. It is fat and tight inside her throat, and Shepard nearly chokes on it when she takes a large sip of wine, finishing what’s in her glass.

She places her empty drink haphazardly on a passing server’s tray, and rubs the back of her hand against her forehead, feeling lost. When two warm, tight arms slip around her middle, Shepard is too exhausted to be surprised. She leans back into the hold and hopes to god that it’s Liara.

Confirmation comes with a low voice and warm breath tickling her ear.

“You look tired,” Liara murmurs, her lips brushing Shepard’s ear with enough suggestion that Shepard nearly whimpers. “Shall I take you to bed?”

“I think that would be best… before I get into another argument with your mother.”

“You’ve been arguing with my mother?”

“I don’t know.” Her nose scrunches up as she turns to see Liara over her shoulder. “We were talking about you. She said I’m _accepted into the family_. You think she wants to adopt me?” Liara pats her backside and tuts. “You _don’t_ think she wants to adopt me?” This time, Liara pinches her ass, and Shepard yelps and laughs before twisting around in Liara’s arms. “Alright, no adoption. We don’t need any more complications, right?”

“How much have you had to drink?” Liara smirks, but slinks in close, threading her fingers together behind Shepard’s back. Jane pokes her tongue out at her. “No more complications,” she agrees, and smiles when Shepard settles her hands on her hips. “Well?”

“Hm?”

“Bed?” Liara grins, and Shepard _ahhs_ as if she actually has to consider her answer.

“We won’t be missed?” she asks, dipping her head lower to brush her lips along Liara’s jaw. “No more candle-lighting celebrations?”

“Not tonight.”

“That’s good enough.”

“Come on,” Liara snorts, sliding her hands along Shepard’s waist and to her own hips, where she pries firm hands away. She threads their fingers together, instead, and tugs Shepard close enough for one soft, sweet kiss that ends before it can really begin. She pulls back with a demure smile, but her cheeks are that _blue, blue, blue_ that makes Shepard’s heart swell inside her chest. “Let’s say our goodnights.”

 

As good as she looks in it, Shepard has to wonder why Liara bothered with this dress…

She sits on the edge of the bed and watches as Liara struggles, fingers picking and plucking at the zipper behind her back, and, “no, no, I’m fine, I have it, just give me a moment.” So Shepard sits, and waits, and smirks as Liara huffs and mutters under her breath until she finally manages to work the zipper down an inch.

After that, it peels away easily enough, and Shepard follows its progress as inch after inch of soft, blue skin is revealed. Sleeves are eaesed down her arms, next, and all thought of changing into her own pyjamas completely vacates Shepard’s head. Liara changes with her back turned, aware of Shepard’s gaze but not unnerved by it. Finally, she slips her pyjamas on over her underwear, and turns.

Shepard blinks, remembering where she is.

“I should undress,” she blurts out, pushing herself up from the bed, and Liara grins and slips beneath the covers, waiting for her.

A small pile of clothes has been set out on the very top of the suitcase that she has insisted on living out of during her stay, neatly folded and ready to be worn when she wakes up tomorrow morning. Shepard pays them just enough attention so as not to disturb them, but otherwise lets her clothes fall where she stands.

Finally, having shucked off her daywear and pulled on an oversized pyjama shirt, she reclaims her position on the edge of the bed and begins the arduous job of preparing to sleep without her prosthesis. Once she has relaxed the muscles in her residual shin, she turns the bedside lamp off and slides into bed beside Liara. Her eyes have not yet adjusted to the light, but Liara makes her presence known almost as soon as Shepard has finished getting comfortable. Her body slinks, warm and firm, into the space beside her, and Shepard runs her hand along the thigh that is hooked over her hip.

“What were you and my mother talking about?”

Shepard smiles when she feels a hand brush against the collar of her shirt, fingers against her throat and searching out a strand of hair. Liara twirls it around her index finger and Shepard hums in both thought and distraction. When she takes too long to answer, Liara gives a sharp little tug on her captured strand of hair, and Shepard pouts.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“I would. That’s why I asked.” She pushes herself up onto her elbow, cradling her head in her hand, and blinks until she can make out Shepard’s shadowy figure beside her. “She… hasn’t been unreasonable, has she?”

“Unreasonable?”

“Argumentative,” Liara tries, frowning. “Petty.”

“Your mother doesn’t exactly strike me as petty…” Liara makes a small noise in the back of her throat, though Shepard struggles to discern its meaning. “She was perfectly reasonable. I think, actually, if anybody wasn’t it was probably me.”

“Jane Shepard,” Liara says, but Shepard knows that tell-tale smile anywhere; she doesn’t have to see it to hear it. “Have you been instigating fights with my mother?”

“I didn’t start it… I don’t think.” Shepard lets out an amused huff. “It wasn’t a fight. It was barely an argument. I… we agreed on some points.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Stop laughing,” Shepard tells her, but can’t keep a grin off her face. “She just wanted to make sure that my intentions were… how do I put it?”

“Pure?”

“Oh, if you wanted _pure_ ,” Shepard grins, lowering her voice; Liara’s breath catches in her throat when the hand on her thigh slides an inch or two higher, “you’re with the wrong person. She wanted to make sure that I wasn’t stringing you along, I think.”

“I’m… not sure I understand your meaning.”

“You know, leading you on? Setting you up for some big, romantic relationship, and then leaving you for your cute best friend who can bend both ankles behind her neck. You know. She doesn’t want you getting your heart broken, I guess.”

Liara’s holds her silence for a moment longer. “That does sound quite impressive.”

“The messy relationship part, or…?”

“ _Jane_.” She lets out a fond, long-suffering sigh and shuffles ever closer. In the dark, her voice is a paradox of soft and weighty, gentle and mysterious. Shepard wishes she’d kept the bedside lamp on, so as to be able to see her expression when Liara next speaks up. “Are you going to break my heart?”

It is teasing, Shepard thinks, and she snorts a laugh without giving a proper answer. When Liara remains silent, the leg around her hip tense, Shepard’s chest constricts.

“Liara,” she says, gentle, and rolls herself up with one elbow until she is partially on top of her, their legs in a comfortable tangle. Her eyes are beginning to adjust to the dark, and Liara’s, bright and brilliant, stand out beneath her. Shepard holds her gaze with a look of intent that might frighten her, were the light turned on for all to see.

Liara is still beneath her for an unbearable few seconds, and then wraps her arms slowly around Shepard’s waist, pulling her in closer.

“That’s not an answer.”

“You’re asking me to predict the future,” Shepard says, minty breath ghosting over Liara’s lips. “It’s certainly not my intention. I don’t know what’s going to happen, neither of us do, but I know what I want. I certainly wouldn’t risk coming here and having your mother warp my head up my ass if she thought I wasn’t with you for the right reasons.”

“Jane,” Liara says, pleading, and Shepard sobers.

“You want a serious discussion about this?” she asks, and Liara nods her head beneath her.

“Yes.”

“Okay.” She takes a deep breath. “Okay.”

“Does this make you uncomfortable…?”

“No, just… It’s a little scary.”

“ _This_ is scary?”

There’s enough amusement in Liara’s question for Shepard to grin along with her. “It is,” she insists. “In a good way?”

“You’re very strange… but I think I understand. It is a little anxiety-inducing.”

“I feel that,” Shepard smirks, but quickly licks it from her lips. _Serious discussion_ , she reminds herself. “Well, I was being serious when I said that about coming here for the right reasons. Apart from the idea of us having an entire four day vacation _almost_ to ourselves, I mean. I wanted to know more about you, where you come from, your family… I love seeing you here, away from all the stress you get from work, and our relationship—”

“Jane—”

“No, it’s okay,” Shepard quickly cuts in. “I know it’s stressful, having to hide this in public and whenever we’re at the college. I feel it, too. It’s _worth_ it, but that doesn’t mean it can’t get really fucking exhausting sometimes.”

“Yes… it can.” She rubs her hands along Shepard’s back as though soothing away the sting from their current topic. “But I don’t regret it.”

“I don’t regret it, either. And this,” she says, pressing closer, still, “being here with you, seeing you all relaxed and happy like this, it more than makes up for it.” She thinks she catches Liara smiling beneath her, but can’t be sure. “I wish I could give you same.”

“Hm?”

“You know, the whole _meet the parents_ routine.”

She turns silent after the confession, and Liara’s words clog in her throat, her stomach sinking, arms tightening around Jane’s middle as though she can _squeeze_ the hurt right out of her. After a few agonizing seconds of uncertainty, she peeps up, “I wish so, too. I’d have liked to meet your family.” She pulls one arm back from around Shepard, and brings her hand up to her cheek. It takes her a while to find it in the dark, but once it’s there her thumb soothes back and forth along a familiar cheekbone. “I know it… hurts you to talk about them. I know it’s not easy. But I do appreciate hearing about them. You make them sound like very good people.”

“Yeah…”

Before Liara can respond, Shepard’s lips are warm and soft against hers. She makes a muffled noise of surprise, but it is not hard to melt into the kiss. She accepts it for what it is – Shepard’s way of ending the conversation, of thanking her, if she dare think as much, but telling her that they can stop here. She’d _like_ to stop here. Liara lets her.

When she pulls back again, Shepard does not have to make up for the gloomy conversation with false cheer, and she’s thankful. She’s too exhausted for it, but Liara does not press for a quick recovery of the mood. She lets her linger a little longer in her own thoughts, running her fingers through her hair until she is so content she could purr, and Shepard draws the conversation into warmer territory all by herself.

“So,” she starts, and her voice is not chipper, per se, but neither is it solemn. “The future.”

“Our future,” Liara repeats, moving both hands to Shepard’s shoulders. “This feels a little less scary, now.”

“It does.”

“I really can’t imagine not having you in my life, Jane.” She bites her lip as soon as the words are said, worrying that it is too soon. _And am I not always admonishing Jane for her impatience…?_ Now that the words are out, however, they cannot be unsaid. That fact steels her confidence – lends her the bravery to continue; some words are easier to say in the dark, she is fast discovering.

“I don’t want to imagine it. I know it is still very early in our relationship and, _Goddess_ , especially by asari standards, but I… I care a lot about you, Jane. _So much_. As soon as your course finishes, as soon as we’re no longer made to pretend that we are nothing more than student and professor, I want to be with you, properly.”

For all of a few seconds, Shepard experiences a stunning sense of vertigo… and then it clears.

She examines her thoughts, her feelings, and is not as surprised as she thought she would be when she discovers that Liara’s words have not induced within her a sense of impending doom, but rather… hope, warmth, and enough emotion to make her heart swell almost uncomfortably behind her ribcage. She stares down at her, unspeaking, unsure how to say _me too, goddamn it_ without frightening Liara away.

“Jane…?”

For the second time that night, Shepard attempts to convey an answer through a hasty kiss. She thinks it will be romantic. She severely misjudges the distance between her own forehead and Liara’s. They collide with a dull thud, and Liara yelps in both shock and pain. Shepard feels her cheeks grow painfully hot.

“ _Shit_ , I’m sorry,” she hisses, rubbing at her forehead. “Oh, fuck me, I thought that would be—I meant to— _agh_ , I’m so sorry, that wasn’t meant to happen.” She peeks down at Liara, sees the vague impression of a hand against her forehead, and wants to sink beneath her bed. Instead, she reaches timidly forward and presses a kiss to the spot where they collided, narrowly missing Liara’s fingers. “I’m so sorry,” she mutters against Liara’s skin.

“Jane… if you’re trying to knock me unconscious to get out of answering…” There’s still a trace of discomfort in Liara’s voice, but that smile is there, too, easing Shepard’s mouth up from her head so that she can speak, uninhibited.

“I wasn’t, I’m not. Christ, that was a dick move, wasn’t it? Are you okay?”

“I think I’ll be alright.”

“My head’s banging.”

“Mine is… surprisingly not.” She reaches up to rub her fingers gently along Shepard’s forehead, tittering in sympathy. “Perhaps you should just use your words.”

Shepard groans in agreement. “You have a free pass to kick me out on my ass if I’ve just given you a concussion…”

“I appreciate that,” Liara smirks, “but really, I’m fine. I think you took the brunt of it.”

“I think so, too.”

“Either way, I’m not kicking you of bed.”

“Good. Thank you.” She shifts on the bed, easing the pressure off her right knee and lowering herself slightly further onto Liara’s body, until she can feel the soft cushion of her breasts against her chest. “Because I’m really comfortable here – not just in bed, I mean, but with you. _You and me_. I like this, I want to— I mean, I feel the same.”

“I’m relieved,” Liara smiles, and eases her hand away from Shepard’s forehead, into her hair.

“You don’t have to doubt it,” Shepard tells her, and she is more careful, this time, when she finds Liara’s lips with her own. “I want this more than anything.”

She knows she’s said the right thing when Liara deepens the kiss, wrapping both legs around Shepard’s and urging her closer in. Shepard luxuriates in the warmth of her. She holds her weight on both elbows and slides her tongue along Liara’s, feeling her body quickly respond to the stimulation.

Liara’s hands soon find their way down to Shepard’s hips, pushing the hem of her oversized shirt out of the way of the cool, bare skin of her thighs. She wraps both hands around Shepard’s ass and squeezes until Jane makes a soft, desperate noise against her mouth. After that, she turns frantic with the urge to be closer – to feel Jane’s skin against her own like she hasn’t before.

When Shepard’s pelvis grinds against her own, Liara keens and drags her mouth away from Jane’s, panting.

“Jane,” she says, clawing at her ass, drawing her closer and into another thrust, whimpering when the friction is barely a fraction of what her tormented body desires. “Jane, Jane…” She feels all of those familiar expletives roll onto her tongue, just a breath away from leaving her mouth, and marvels at the sheer strength of her need to be consumed entirely by the woman on top of her.

“Goddess,” she says, with startling realisation, “Jane… I’m so ready.”

Before Shepard can understand her meaning, she is sliding her hands away, to the hem of her own pyjama shirt, to the waistband of her pants, fingers fumbling and unsure which task to complete first. Shepard almost helps her, when she realises her struggle, but as she moves one hand to Liara’s fumbling two, she understands suddenly what they are doing – and freezes.

All at once, the weight of the situation lands hard and heavy on her back, and Shepard struggles to breathe.

“Jane.” Liara asks her, her voice thick and strange, like it’s arriving to her through sheets of water. “Jane?”

Shepard blinks at her, her jaw loose and a small, strange frown on her face that Liara can just about make out in the dark. She soon forgets her earlier struggle, and moves both hands, instead, to Shepard’s cheeks. She draws her face slowly closer, and Shepard lets herself go, utterly unable to regain control.

“Jane,” Liara says, and her voice sounds clearer, and Shepard could tell her that she loves her right now, and Liara would say the words back, she is _certain_. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

It makes her sick – tight and twisting in her stomach – to realise how close she is, barely three words away, and yet with one meld ( _“I’m ready,” Liara’s voice repeats again inside her head, and Shepard has to hold down her dinner_ ), in just a short few seconds, because she is sure that it would take no more, she could ruin it all.

She has come too close. She has _just got here_.

She moves her body off Liara and lands heavily on the mattress by her side.

“I’m sorry,” she says, when Liara turns to her, confused and concerned. “I’m sorry, I’m not… I’m not ready, yet.” She feels a sick sense of dread as she imagines all of the terrible conclusions that Liara could be drawing from her words. Has she just negated their entire discussion, she wonders?

She waits for the silence, for Liara’s body to shift away from hers, for a shuddery breath and a dawning realisation that a terrible mistake has just been made… Instead, a warm hand against her cheek. Shepard opens her eyes and realises that she has been clenching them shut, terrified.

“Jane,” again, calmer now, and Liara is still here, she tells herself, Liara is here and holding her and moving closer, even as she continues to push her away. “It’s alright.”

“It’s not.” Fear burns into frustration. “I should be, I— I feel ready for everything else, please don’t think I’m not.”

“Sh, I don’t. It’s alright, I promise. It’s not important.”

“It’s important to you—”

“ _You’re_ important to me.”

There’s an edge of insistence to Liara’s voice that Shepard dare not argue against. She lets herself sink into the mattress, lets her body turn soft so that Liara can shuffle closer, still, can wrap her limbs around her and stroke her hair, and press kiss after kiss against the bare skin where Shepard’s over-sized pyjama top exposes her collar.

“You’re very important to me,” Liara repeats, “much more important than that.” And when Shepard does not answer: “Okay?”

“Okay,” she repeats, and wraps her arms tighter around Liara’s body, trying to find comfort in her words.

And although Liara barely twitches again throughout the night, Shepard falls into a troubled sleep, and wakes feeling all the worse for it.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be a quick bit of filler for N7 Day because I couldn’t leave Thessia alone, and then plot happened, ahaha, shite… 
> 
> I'm actually really not sure what to make of this chapter; I'm not happy with the direction it has taken. It's gone outside of my comfort zone, but it feels natural to the story I'm telling, so I don't want to curb it into something lighthearted just so that I feel better about it. 
> 
> (SPOILER for a possible trigger warning: there’s some kind of messed up unhealthy relationship/poor reasons for having sex (not between Liara and Shepard, and I personally wouldn't class it anywhere near dub/non-con) somewhere near the bottom of the second section of this chapter. You know the drill: let me know if I need to put a marker in to indicate where to stop reading if you want to skip this.)

Shepard is positively cheerful when they’re set to leave.

Liara considers taking offence, but her grin is contagious.

“Are you sure you want to drive?” she asks while Shepard loads their cases into the skycar’s rear storage unit. “It’d be much easier to simply key in a destination.”

“You worried I’ll get us lost?” Shepard asks, her head emerging from the boot. She closes the back door and rests both hands there, grinning. “I know where I’m going, and it’s been a while since I’ve driven one of these things. I miss being behind the wheel.” Liara’s eyes turn tight in their corners, and Shepard barks out a laugh. “Seriously, relax. I’ve got this.”

And so Liara takes in a deep breath and nods her head, and _I’ve got this_ , Shepard tells her again, very pointedly, as she takes the third wrong turn of their trip. Liara sits beside her, her hands wedged beneath her thighs to keep herself from reaching over and grabbing the steering wheel out of Shepard’s hands. She bites her bottom lip and leaves little toothy indents there as she turns her incredulous stare between Shepard and the front window.

“Jane,” she says, plaintive, and Shepard’s grin only widens. “Are you very certain that you know where you’re going?”

“I’m very certain.”

“Is there a particular reason why we’re heading East?”

“Sure there is,” Shepard snorts, and flicks her gaze across to her just long enough to see the exact moment when Liara resigns herself to becoming miserably lost. The look comes with two crossed arms against her chest, and her mouth setting into a thin line. Shepard turns back to the road with a confident smirk. “We’re missing all the traffic, trust me.”

“In any other situation…” Liara mutters, but remains otherwise silent as Shepard drives them further and further away from the docking station. Beside her, Shepard even has the gall to whistle – badly. By the time their skycar pulls up, they’re on an out-of-the-way high street. Liara surveys the view from all visible windows, and then turns to Shepard, brow arched. “Are you willing to admit that you have absolutely no idea where you’re going, yet?”

Shepard tilts her head to one side in thought. “Nope.”

“Stubborn,” Liara huffs, but her lips are tilting up, again, even as she sighs and looks outside, taking in the damage. “Well, I suppose it won’t be difficult to find our way out, at least.” She turns to Shepard with a sharp look. “But you’re no longer driving. Get out and swap with me.”

“You really don’t trust me?” Shepard asks with a feigned pout, but Liara does not take the bait, only deadpans her back until Shepard cannot hide her grin. “Okay, fine, alright. Come on, then, let’s get out.”

She gives up far too easily, is Liara’s first impression, slipping out of the driver’s seat and hopping around to her side of the skycar. When she pulls the door open for her, Shepard’s smile is positively _charmed_. Liara is instantly suspicious. “What devious plan am I playing into?” she asks, taking Shepard’s proffered hand as she steps out of the car.

“Devious?”

“You’ve been smirking since we set off, and you usually don’t give in this easily.”

Liara’s gaze shifts between both of Shepard’s tired, green eyes. She steps closer into her chest when Shepard reaches around her body to close the skycar’s door, and then presses her into the cool frame of it. With their warm winter coats on, there’s too much padding for Liara to properly feel her, and yet a flush creeps up her chest, already.

“Devious as in… bringing you all the way out here when we have travel tickets booked for two hours?” she asks, her breath ghosting out of her smiling lips. Liara considers the question for a moment, eyes narrowing. Eventually, she lets out a small, affirmative hum. “Well, I haven’t. Or, rather, _we_ haven’t.”

“Jane, what have you done?”

If she wasn’t still smiling, Shepard might actually be concerned.

“I rescheduled our flight,” she says, announces it with a proud little grin, and Liara blinks and blinks and then just frowns a little. “It’s still tonight, don’t worry, just in another three hours.”

“May I ask why you’ve done that?”

“Sure you can,” Shepard nods, and takes Liara by the hips, gently pulling her away from the skycar. “Or I could just show you?”

Liara lets herself be guided back onto the sidewalk, and then Shepard is twisting her, turning her around and crowding in against her back, hands on her hips. She pokes her face over Liara’s shoulder and smiles while Liara attempts to understand what she’s supposed to be looking at. For a moment, her eyes scour the skycar, wondering if a clue lies there, and then she lifts her gaze, and gasps.

“Jane…”

“Please tell me you’re hungry,” Shepard murmurs, grinning against her ear. Liara tilts her head back to see her, nodding, and Shepard’s smile widens at the stunned look on her face. “Good, because I’m starving, and I hear the portion sizes aren’t exactly modest here.”

“Is this why you barely ate at breakfast?”

“Mhm.”

“Jane,” Liara sighs, a smile playing at her lips, finally, as she turns straight ahead. “You’d need a very early reservation in order to eat at this restaurant this soon after Janiris.”

“I would, wouldn’t I?”

Stepping back from her, Liara turns again so that she is facing Shepard, and slides her hands comfortably around her broad shoulders. “You’re full of surprises,” she murmurs as Shepard’s arms circle her waist, pulling her in close. “I almost… don’t even want to ask how you managed it.”

“Oh, I pulled a few strings,” Shepard shrugs, and Liara arches an unconvinced brow. “I owe a lot of people favours.”

“That sounds about right…”

Huffing, Shepard leans in for a smiling kiss, and Liara gladly accepts her. If it were any darker, Shepard might linger longer, might press Liara back against the door of the skycar and deepen the kiss until they’re both visibly panting hot, white breath from their mouths. As it is, the weather in the city is a vast improvement to what they have endured for the past four days, and she doesn’t want to push any public displays of affection too far. This is a stepping stone, she reminds herself, not a leap of faith.

“Shall we go inside?” she asks upon pulling back, and Liara nods but makes no sign of movement. For the first time that day, Shepard has to wonder if she hasn’t made a mistake. “Is this okay? I know I kind of fucked up your plans a little.”

“No, that’s no problem,” Liara reassures her, rubbing the space between her shoulder blades. “I’m just surprised.”

“In a good way?”

“Mm, in a good way, yes.” She nods her head and smiles, and as good as feels the tension slipping out of Shepard’s body. “But – and, please don’t take this the wrong way, because I appreciate this a lot,” Shepard nods her head, urging her on, “ _why_ all the secrecy?”

“Aside from this being a surprise? Well, for one, I wasn’t sure how you generally celebrated Janiris – if there was an exchanging of presents or… something similar. And then I wasn’t sure what to get you; you were taking me to your mother’s massive estate, and if you really wanted anything I knew you’d just get it yourself.”

“You put a lot of thought into this.”

“I did,” Shepard agrees, letting out a little breath. “I thought, especially, about how this was going to be the first time that we were really going to get this opportunity – to eat out somewhere, I mean, without having to worry about watching our backs. After that, it kind of just made sense that we should take full advantage of being somewhere where nobody will recognise us.”

“You could have told me,” Liara points out. “I could have helped you plan all of this.”

“There wasn’t too much to plan, really. Once I had the reservation, I just needed to make sure that I could change our travel tickets to give us long enough to eat lunch and get to the docking station.” She tightens her arms around Liara briefly, pulling her in closer and then letting her sway back out again. “Besides, I wanted to see the look on your face when I pulled up here.”

“Perhaps you should be offended that I only suspected something was going on after you climbed out of the skycar, and not when you took as many wrong turns as you possibly could in order to bring us here.”

“Perhaps I should,” Shepard agrees, smirking, and leans in for another quick kiss. “Or we could just go inside and eat?”

“I’d like that.”

“Me too.”

Shepard takes a step back and Liara links their arms together, unable to keep the smile from her face as they cross the road and enter the restaurant by its large, glass doors.

 

 

 

Once she has bid the last of her remaining guests farewell, Matriarch Benezia is exhausted.

She has kissed cheeks, and shook hands, and made so many promises to keep in touch that she doubts she will remember them all. Seeing her standing by a semi-cleared buffet table, a hand pressed to her forehead and heaving a weary sigh, her head of staff sends her back to her private quarters with a promise to have the estate returned to pristine condition before she wakes up tomorrow.

Benezia does not need to be persuaded.

She forgoes the staircase and takes the elevator up to the third floor, repressing several yawns along the way. The estate is silent around her, lights dimmed the further up she travels, no longer having to accommodate so many guests. When the elevator stops, its doors open directly outside of her bedroom suite.

The curtains around the arched doorway have been drawn back, and two wall lights on their dimmest setting illuminate the little hallway outside of her bedroom. Benezia pulls the ties in the curtains as she passes, letting them swoop to a close behind her back, sealing off her secluded quarters from the rest of the estate.

Her body works on autopilot as she wanders into her bathroom, turning on faucets; she lets the bathtub fill while she undresses, discarding her long-sleeved dress down a laundry dispenser, and tying a floor-length robe around her waist. Before she climbs into the bathtub, she closes the curtains around her bedroom windows and pulls the heavy, cream drapes in front of her balcony doors, sealing off the draft. It is dark out, and the closed curtains make little change to the dimness of the bedroom.

Benezia forgoes turning on any other lamps. She closes her bathroom door behind her, drapes her robe over a hook, and sinks her aching muscles into hot, bubbling water until she can no longer feel the knots between her shoulder blades.

 

When Benezia rises again, it is late and her fingers and toes have pruned in the water.

She climbs out of the bath and towel dries as it drains. She does not bother with her slippers, but pulls the robe loosely around her damp shoulders and exits the bathroom. When the door opens to her bedroom, a gust of cool air rushes in, and Benezia hurries to pull her robe properly over her shoulders. She thinks little of it, at first; she has just stepped out of her hot and humid bathroom, and her body is still wet in places.

Then she spots the balcony doors, peeking out at her from between a snag of curtain that should not be open.

A chill grips her body that has little to do with the temperature of her bedroom. She pulls her robe instantly closed, knots the tie around her waist, and takes a step closer to the balcony before the sight of muddy footprints stops her in her tracks. The trail leads away from her balcony and then veers off to the right, to a pair of large commando-esque boots. One has fallen over onto its side, having likely been hastily discarded, and presents its filthy underside.

Benezia takes in the sight with a small sigh, and then continues on into her closet.

“Ah, you’re out,” a husky voice says from deep inside one of her clothes’ shelves. “I thought you’d fallen asleep. Nearly came in and woke you.”

Benezia leans her body against the door frame, casting a shadow that obscures both her guest and the shelf that she is intruding upon. The move earns her a deep sigh, and her visitor pulls herself away, holding her hands up in a mock show of surrender. Benezia folds her arms tight against her breasts.

“You’re playing a very dangerous game,” she says, casting a glance around her closet, searching for any further evidence of her visitor’s snooping. “I do hope you at least waited until a break in my surveillance before you scaled the building.”

“Don’t worry, babe, nobody saw me.”

It is overconfident and it instantly draws Benezia’s attention, but that is a mistake. Her gaze lands on deep, dark eyes, and then falls to a familiar smirk; even here in the darkness of her closet, the sight of her sends a hot rush through Benezia’s chest. When she steps in closer, circles her until she is between Benezia and the open door, crowding her personal space, Benezia stands rigid and already vaguely breathless.

She turns her gaze over her guest’s shoulder, out onto the far wall of her bedroom, refusing her attention.

“How long have you been waiting outside?”

“Long enough to see her leave with that human on her arm.”

Benezia sighs again and turns to see her, against her better judgement (though has that not always been the case, when the asari before her is concerned?). She takes her in properly, now, the form-fitting cat suit and the new wrinkles in the corners of her eyes, and if her heart doesn’t still ache for her…

She has barely changed at all, and yet Benezia knows that they are no longer two people who can relate in a way that they once could. She knows that they move away from what they once were, what they once had, a little further every time that they meet like this, like a pair of fugitives scrabbling over time that is already long since passed.

“You’ve always been arrogant, Aethyta, but even you must understand that you’re tempting fate with every day that you see her.” Aethyta does not react to her words, but Benezia is used to this, by now, the stoic silence that infuriates her more than Aethyta’s arguments ever could. “If she were to discover who you really were—”

“She won’t,” Aethyta quickly cuts in, frowning, and this is an Aethyta that Benezia is familiar with – one that she can work with, if nothing more. “Kid’s got brains for days, but even she would have to make a pretty elaborate leap to figure that one out. And would it be so fucking awful if she did?”

Benezia releases a long-suffering sigh. “We’ve discussed this countless times. We’ve agreed that what’s best for Liara—”

“ _You_ – you’ve agreed, Nezzie, and I’ve put up with the shit end of the stick because you’ve always been better at this than I have.”

“You _put up with it_ because you know that I’m right.” Benezia takes a pointed step forward, meaning to step around Aethyta, but her space gets instantly crowded. She bounces back from Aethyta’s chest as though she’s just hit a metal wall, and stares at her, disbelieving, until it becomes clear that Aethyta will not move. “Is there a reason for why you’re being particularly immature this evening?”

An escaped expletive rolls off Aethyta’s tongue. She presses a hand to her forehead as though rubbing away a budding migraine, and begins to pace in the doorway, taking no less than two steps before she has to turn back again. “I want to talk,” she says, eventually, having struggled to contain another argument. She stops pacing, already dizzy in the confined space, and lowers the hand from her head. “Properly.”

Benezia observes her, tense and vibrating on the spot. She rubs one hand against her own chest where the neckline of her robe exposes a V of blue skin, and frowns. “You didn’t come here to talk.”

“I didn’t come here to argue,” Aethyta presses on, “but if you won’t take this civilly…”

“Then let’s sit down—”

“No, we’re not moving. Here is fine.” Benezia opens her mouth to protest, but Aethyta waves her off with a dismissive hand gesture. Benezia just about refrains from balking at the _audacity_. “I have things to say and you’re going to listen, this time. I don’t want you to speak until I’m done, and then you can say whatever the hell you need to. Alright?”

Benezia considers the deal. She doubts she has much of a choice, either way, and gives a small but firm nod of her head. Apparently, that’s all the confirmation that Aethyta really needs.

“We both know why I wasn’t in the kid’s life. I’m not parent material, and you’ve done a damn good job of her on your own, I know that. I can appreciate that, even now. I never doubted that she’d turn out to be the prim and proper princesses that you always wanted for the T’Soni Estate.” Benezia scoffs at the idea, but Aethyta raises her hand, again, commanding quiet, and Benezia promptly closes her mouth. “Shit, Nezzie, I can accept that I’d have fucked something up, eventually… But you can’t tell me that this is better.”

“We agreed—”

“We agreed to go our separate ways because having a pureblood brat with your asari bondmate would have fucked your political career up the ass.”

“ _Aethyta_.”

“Deny it,” Aethyta goads her, her voice rising. Benezia sends a sharp, worried glance over her shoulder, cautious of being overheard, as unlikely as it is. “Go ahead and deny it, Nezzie. Lie to me. That’s what you politicians do, isn’t it? Well, here’s a perfect opportunity. Or are you ready to admit that the only reason I didn’t raise the kid with you is because you were too afraid of what a group of decrepit fucking Matriarchs would say about it.”

She’s hit a nerve – already knew that she would, and now Benezia’s eyelid twitches in confirmation. Her arms uncross and her hands close into fists by her sides, and Aethyta _feeds_ off the anger in her eyes. She will take this rage over apathy, any day, and that has always been her problem.

“No.”

“No?”

“No,” Benezia shakes her head, her voice remaining quiet but demanding, resonating out of her and sending a shiver through Aethyta’s tense body. “No, we had already strayed too far from each other. Our separation was inevitable. Liara… only ensured that it came sooner rather than later.” Aethyta looks to want to shush her again, but Benezia speaks on before she can raise her hand in time. She speaks with a natural air of authority, even here, with her robe falling open, and Aethyta responds in kind. “We could never have given her, together, what I gave her, alone.”

“You’re acting like you’re the only person who knows what’s best for her.”

“I _do_ know what’s best for her. I’m her mother.”

“Well I’m her mother, too,” Aethyta barks, and all at once a chill slithers down Benezia’s spine, making her shiver, “and I want to be in her life.”

Her stomach twists at the desperate, anxious look on Aethyta’s face, like she has already accepted that she can be talked down from this, with the right words, and she is _begging_ Benezia not to do it. She is pleading with her, as good as on her hands and knees, tugging on the ends of her robe, and Benezia feels sick with the knowledge of what she is about to do.

“This is a mistake and you know it,” she tells Aethyta. She does not gentle her voice, even as the words rise with the sting of bile up her throat. “You’ll only confuse her – or worse.” She takes a step forward, and Aethyta crumbles back, giving up ground. “You think you know her because you’ve lived in her apartment complex for a year – sharing greetings and small talk as you pass in the corridor? Do you think she will be _grateful_ to learn that her other mother has been alive and well all this time, and came to her as a _stranger_ before doing her the decency of telling her who she really was?”

She takes another step forward and her eyes turn tight and tired when Aethyta gives it up, as easy as that, stepping back into the bedroom. They’re almost out of the closet completely, and Aethyta’s shoulders have sagged, and she would rather have her ranting and raging – rather have her smashing ornaments and family heirlooms – than this awful silence that greets her, now. It makes Benezia sick to know that it’s her doing.

Still, she does not let up.

“You’re not going to tell her anything,” Benezia says, and Aethyta’s stomach sinks, because she knows she’s right, already. “If you had any sense, you would move out immediately and never see her again.”

“I can’t do that.” The last of Aethyta’s fight creeps into her words, but her voice sounds brittle, as thin as a blade of starved, winter grass. “I know her, now, Nez. I know her. I won’t leave her, again.”

“Aethyta,” Benezia pleads, “she doesn’t know who you are.”

She thinks that she sees the precise moment when the fight leaves Aethyta’s eyes, and her heart would break for her, if she felt she deserved to make this moment about herself. Aethyta is still and silent, her muscles locked in place and a tell-tale shine to her eyes. When she can move at all, she gives a jerky nod of her head, and mutters, “…shit.”

It comes again, louder, but resigned.

“Shit,” she says, and rubs her eyes, “I know.”

Benezia thinks she could do it, now, could tell Aethyta to pack up her belongings and move to an entirely new planet, and she would. She is unsure whether it is a blessing or a curse upon Aethyta, when she doesn’t, but she has chipped enough of her away, tonight, and she will take no more, if she can help it.  

She tells herself that this is the reason why she stops her, when Aethyta takes a step back as though to turn away, back to the muddy boots and the balcony she had scaled earlier in the night. She bracelets a hand around Aethyta’s sleeve and Aethyta accepts her fate like it is just one more inevitability that she will have to stomach; she is soft and suggestible, and all Benezia really has to do is lead her, with a gentle hand, further into the room.

If she can justify this at all, it is by telling herself that she is helping – she is soothing and salving, the only way that she knows how, in their changed states. She stops them both once they have reached the bed, pushes Aethyta to sit on the edge of it, and stands between her legs when Aethyta does as she is urged. She watches Benezia like she has not just left her with a debilitating wound somewhere deep inside. She is slack jawed and ready, grasping at her hips, and this is the one thing that Benezia can give her – will not keep her from, at least.

She unties her robe.

In the end, Aethyta may have rallied for violent wars to solve the asari’s collective problems, but Benezia has always had far more scope for _cruelty_.

 

 

 

Liara sleeps on the way home.

The commercial airline isn’t nearly as luxurious as Justicar Samara’s ship, but they make do among the throng of natives and tourists departing Thessia now that the holidays have ended. Liara insists that Shepard take the window seat, promising that she will appreciate the view. Not twenty minutes into the flight, her head lops onto Shepard’s shoulder and remains there until the aircraft is landing, several hours later.

Shepard rouses her before a flight attendant can, and Liara wakes groggy and aching, groaning about the kink in her neck. Shepard rubs her arm while she massages the ache away, and smiles when Liara turns to her, pouting and barely alert. “We’re here?” she asks, her voice thick with sleep, and then turns her attention to the shoulder that she desperately hopes she hasn’t drooled on. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Shepard sits up a little straighter now that she no longer has to keep still for Liara’s sake. “Sleep well?”

“Surprisingly,” Liara agrees. “Was I out of it for long?”

“A couple of hours.”

Liara winces with the knowledge. She will not sleep tonight – not like she had planned. The trip back from Thessia always ruins her sleeping pattern; it is an inevitability that she can plan for, now, and yet the knowledge that it will take her a few days to recover does not make her feel any better.

Apparently sympathising with her, Shepard pats her knee and presses a quick kiss to her shoulder.

“Come on, we’d better get off before they come for us,” she says, and Liara stands and stretches, and takes Shepard’s hand as they depart the aircraft.

 

By the time they have cleared the docking station with their suitcases intact, it is late and dark and hunger is beginning to rumble around the edges of Shepard’s stomach, already. In reality, she is only a few hours off lunch, but the change in time zone makes her feel as though she’s skipped a meal.

“Are you in any rush to get unpacked?” she asks Liara as they board a skycar, and Liara slips into the seat beside her, shaking her head.

She is drowsy, still, the energy sapped from her after half a week of celebrations. She will need to hide away, after this, crawl into a dark room and remain there until she has recharged, but she is not sorry for it. Shepard takes her in with a fond smile. With the skycar set to autopilot, they can crowd together as much as the console between them will allow, their shoulders almost touching, Shepard with her hand lax and happy on Liara’s thigh.

“Take out and chill?” she asks, nudging her shoulder into Liara’s, and Liara grins and lets out a quiet laugh at the term. “Your place or mine?”

“Mine.” It’s a decisive answer, and Liara soon perks up as their plan takes shape. She sits up a little straighter and angles her body towards Shepard to ask, “Jane… can I steal you away for one more night?” Shepard’s eyebrows arch in surprise, and Liara quickly continues on. “This Janiris has been perfect. I’m… not ready for it to end, yet.” She bites her bottom lip, and Shepard’s heart just about swells inside her chest. “Stay one more night, before we have to back to how things were.”

“Okay,” because it’s easy, now, to let herself have something in her life that makes her want to grow old and happy (and surrounded by tiny, blue children). “I’d like that.”

She leans over the console and kisses her before the skycar can rock up against the side of Liara’s apartment complex, feeling more content than she has all week.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So if anybody would like to know why this is so late, I bought Fallout 4. Help me. 
> 
> Updates may be a little slower from now on, but I think there will only be another three or four chapters left to go, at most. My plan says three chapters, but I have a tendency to over-write, and I have ideas for an epilogue, so. We’ll see. We’re definitely nearing the end, though!

Shepard doesn’t see much of Liara, after that.

With all the work that she has yet to complete, she tucks herself away from the world and spends her remaining winter break under various levels of stress, finishing the assignments that are due in on her first week back. All communication with Liara is reverted to late night calls and encouraging messages, and Shepard can’t honestly say that she’s really all that reluctant to return to college, once the break is over.

Come that first Monday morning back, Shepard is as good as vibrating in her boots as she hovers in the History corridor, waiting for Liara to arrive. She’s not the earliest member of her class, but she isn’t sure if the turian sleeping in the corner, tucked into her own oversized hoodie, really counts.

Still, she’s eager – maybe even a little nervous.

It feels surreal to have returned, Shepard thinks, even as she takes in the familiar corridor and the students passing sleepily through it. She has the distinct impression of having just woken from a particularly long and vivid dream; the trip to Thessia feels like a small and over-thought detail of her imagination, rather than a memory. The longer she replays it, the more unlikely it becomes.

This early on in the morning, Shepard can almost convince herself that she’s made the entire thing up. She feels like a new student, again, rushing in late to her class, gawping at her teacher. In reality, she and Liara have come so far from that that it hardly feels fair that they have to return to it – to this classroom, and this roomful of students who Shepard simultaneously feels a part of and apart from.

She has the distinct impression of having taken one step forward and two steps back, and it leaves her antsy and anxious, her heart hummingbird-quick inside her chest.

The surreal quality of her morning does not shift when Liara arrives, her heeled footsteps ricocheting off the walls, but intensifies. Shepard sees her approach, sees the long skirt and the blazer and the small ankles that sit above her equally demure footwear, and feels as though she’s stepped back in time. Her heart seizes in her chest like it has all those times before, and _I’ll never have a chance with her_ , she thinks, falling into habit.

Only when Liara’s blue, blue eyes light up upon seeing her does the feeling begin to ebb away. The budding smirk on her lipsticked lips chips at it further, still, and then blows it to pieces when Liara turns her back to Shepard to open the door, revealing the zipper that runs the full length of her skirt, straight down the centre of her ass.

It’s an outfit that Shepard has expressed ample fondness for, in the past, and that Liara has chosen to wear it today cannot be a coincidence.

 

Inside the seminar room, Shepard takes her regular seat with a smirk.

Liara experiences a strange sense of déjà vu when she sees it. She pauses in her unpacking, nearly drops a datapad from her fumbling hands, and has to bite her bottom lip to keep from smiling or laughing or sighing in frustration. Shepard is two desks away, right in front of her, and yet utterly untouchable. If she reaches out far enough with her legs, their feet could probably meet beneath the tables, away from sight.

It’s such a frivolous thought that Liara actually blushes, and then quickly scolds herself.

Still, she manages to conduct her lesson with none of that old fumbling.

She welcomes her students back and does not to stare, every few seconds, into the vivid green eyes that she can feel very intimately upon her body. She calls _that_ an accomplishment, even as it feels like a special kind of torture, one that gets beneath her skin and makes her over-taxed heart pound, and pound, and pound until she’s breathless, having done nothing but sit at her desk.

There’s a new worry, now, too, she discovers. New anxieties plague the fringes of her thoughts, pulling her mind off into spiralling tethers of _you’re making it obvious_ and _what if somebody notices…?_ There had been plenty of that before, but it feels different, now. The trip to Thessia feels to have changed her, changed _them_ , as good as stamping matching birthmarks on their cheeks for all to see.

How is it not obvious, she wonders? How can they not all see it in her face?

The feeling builds up throughout her lesson – an agonising two hours of avoiding all direct eye contact with Shepard, even as she fights the urge to study her face, the depths of her eyes, for any noticeable sign of their relationship that anyone else could pick up on. By the end of the seminar, it’s all Liara can do to carefully return one item to her handbag after another, drawing the process out with unsteady hands. She gives herself and Shepard enough time for her remaining students to filter out through the door, and then lifts her head.

Before her, just as expected, is Jane Shepard.

She sits with her arms crossed against her chest, slouching in a way that could belie just how tense her shoulders are, if Liara wasn’t intimately acquainted with them. As it is, she spots Shepard’s mild discomfort almost as soon as she sees her, and her stomach clenches. In response to the look on her face, Shepard straightens up in her chair and leans with both elbows on her desk.

“Are you alright?” she asks, voice low, and Liara suddenly realises that it isn’t so much discomfort on her face as it is _concern_.

That, at least, she knows how to work with.

“I am,” she replies, keeps her voice soft and does not lie, even if a part of her wants to answer otherwise. She contemplates asking Shepard whether or not she feels it, too, the changed atmosphere that took a hold of them as soon as they set foot upon campus, or whether she has imagined it into existence herself. When she catches Shepard looking at her, expression expectant, she can’t bring herself to say the words. Instead: “How are your assignments going?”

Shepard’s pause is a noticeable one.

“Eh,” she shrugs, noncommittal but forced, “they’re going.”

Her nonchalance sparks up a feeling of urgency within Liara. _Professor Mode_ , Shepard would call it.

“The hand-in date is very soon,” she says, her voice a warning, and that draws a smile from Shepard, finally. Seeing it, a part of Liara relaxes, and the rest of her body soon follows suit. “Don’t provoke me,” she tells Jane, her voice dropping but her smile fond, “you don’t know how many students come to me begging for an extension in the days leading up to their deadlines.”

“I could hazard a guess.”

“And I’d tell you to double it,” Liara counters, and Shepard gives a quick little snort. Still, there’s a look on Liara’s face that could only be described as _pinched_. The corners of her eyes draw in tight while she rolls the edge of her bottom lip between her teeth. “Jane,” she begins, and Shepard releases a heavy, if amused sigh.

“I’m almost done, I promise. I told you I’d finish them in time, didn’t I?”

“You did,” Liara concedes.

“And you don’t doubt me, do you, Doctor T’Soni?”

Liara is so familiar with that tone of voice that she should be able to steel herself against it, she thinks. As it is, a shiver grips her spine and has her nearly quivering in her seat. She spares a quick glance for the door, the window beyond it, and Shepard must pick up on her thoughts. When she returns her gaze to her, there’s a very knowing smile on Shepard’s lips.

“I don’t doubt you,” Liara tells her, eventually, and clears her throat. She draws her own hands up onto her desk and pleats her fingers together to keep from fidgeting. Shepard mirrors her position, knotting her fingers, and the sight instantly draws Liara’s gaze. “You know I’m well aware of your… capability.”

“I should think so.”

Liara blinks her gaze back up to Shepard’s eyes. A retort comes quick and easy to her lips, but she smuggles it away deep inside her throat when she remembers just where they are. This isn’t the place for their playful flirtations, and never has that felt truer than in this moment. Instead, Liara wets her lips and attempts to smooth her appearance over with a professional veneer.

It lasts all of a few seconds, though Liara must reward herself for that, considering what she’s up against.

Shepard’s expression turns from amused to wanting quicker than Liara has time to process the shift. A foot knocks against her own beneath the table; it has her mind reeling back to that earlier, silly thought, and a blush comes quick and warm to her cheeks. Her mouth turns decidedly dry against the hunger that possesses Shepard’s expression.

When she speaks, however, it is not in that throaty, wanton voice that she whispers into Liara’s ear before she slips her hands beneath the waistband of her underwear. It is soft and high in a way that Liara seldom gets to hear from her, and so pure in its longing that she could call it innocent, despite the words themselves.

“I really want to kiss you right now.”

It utterly undoes her.

Her lips part with a breathy, “ _oh_ ,” and Shepard knows she has her, then. Her lips turn up in a wicked smile, and Liara’s blood all but burns through her veins at the sight of it.  

“Do you have any idea how difficult it is to sit here, in a roomful of people, having to concentrate on your lesson when all I can think about is leaning over the desk and taking you by the collar of your blazer…?”

 _Yes_ , Liara thinks. _Goddess, yes, do I know_.

“Jane…”

“And sitting here with you, now,” Shepard continues, giving Liara a lingering once-over, “I can’t stop thinking about how easy it would be to get out of my chair, help you out of yours…” Her gaze returns to Liara’s face, skimming between both eyes. “If only that window had a shutter, I think you’d let me.”

“Oh…?”

“Mm,” Shepard smiles, and her eyes fall down to Liara’s desk. “Have I ever told you how much I think about you and this desk?”

Liara blinks and frowns, and repeats, “This desk?”

“This desk. Or, more particularly, you on top of this desk. Bent over it, maybe even lying down. It looks like it could easily hold our weight.”

“It is,” Liara tries, clears her throat, and has to begin again, “it is a good desk.”

“Very solid.”

“Oh, yes.” Liara lays her palms flat against it, as though testing out the industrial steel, and nods her head in agreement. “It is a shame that the window does not have a shutter.” She bites her bottom lip and lets her thoughts delve into the fantasy for a little longer. When she lifts her gaze to Shepard’s face, it is with a twinkle in her eyes. “Though, I do know another window that has exactly what we need.”

“Oh, yeah?” Shepard grins. “And does this window happen to be in a deep, dark… incredibly cluttered room?”

Liara’s eyes narrow with not completely feigned indignation. “It does.”

“Then I think I’m sold,” Shepard grins, and is just about to inquire whether they should slip back into Liara’s office now, or after they’ve picked up a coffee order, when her words are prematurely cut-off by the hissing of an opening door. She tilts her head towards the entrance, slouching back in her chair, and spots the indigo-skinned asari that’s triggered the door’s automatic opening mechanism just as her expression turns from expectant to surprised.

“I’m sorry, Dr. T’Soni,” she says with a pleasant, if not entirely remorseful smile, “I wasn’t aware you were with anyone.”

Shepard offers a mute smile. When she turns around, again, it is to find that Liara has stiffened into a blushing, if perfectly postured professor. Her eyes, heavily-lidded and amused just seconds earlier, are now cool and hard; if she could force herself to meet Shepard’s gaze, she’d be sure to see the panic in their depths.

“Professor Taleer,” Liara says, and Shepard recognises both the apology and dismay in her voice. She lifts her wrist to confirm the time on her omni-tool, and the skin around her eyes pulls in tight at the corners. “I should have been with you five minutes ago, shouldn’t I?”

“You should have,” Taleer agrees, an edge of teasing to her voice that does not last when she spots Shepard, again, and inquires, “unless you’re in the middle of something, here? My thesis isn’t going anywhere.”

“I…”

She stammers to a stop and turns to Shepard, looking vaguely guilty, but Shepard does not let her go on. Before she can begin again, Shepard turns to Taleer to say, “She’s not, don’t worry.” She sits up in her seat and grabs her bag from beneath the table, dodging Liara’s guilty expression, and then offering her a bright smile. “I’ll be out of your hair—ah, figuratively speaking, of course.” She winks and stands up, stepping around Professor Taleer. When she gets to the door, she just about refrains from saluting.

Instead, a small wave, and she exits the room.

Liara watches her go with a pinched expression. When she turns back to Taleer, it is with an apologetic smile firmly in place. “I completely forgot,” she admits, and Taleer slips into Shepard’s freshly vacated seat, clasping her hands together and planting both elbows on the desk. She leans indulgently forward, a grin on her lipsticked mouth.

“And I can hardly blame you.” She casts the doorway a quick glance to confirm that they are alone, though seems at once to regret being unable to sneak another glance at the topic of their conversation. “You had quite the distraction on your hands. A shame she wasn’t _in_ your hands, really…”

“ _Chahla_.”

“Honestly, Liara,” Taleer laughs, turning back to see the pretty purple in Liara’s cheeks and releasing her hands. She places them on her rounded stomach, instead, as if to make a point of it. “You know I’m teasing. Goddess knows if _anyone_ were to make a scandal out of your war-hero, my credits would not be on you. That said…”

“I don’t think you should finish that train of thought,” Liara says, a little too abruptly. She has the good sense to feel a little sorry for it, too, when Chahla’s face falls into something resembling surprise. Subdued, for the most part, she sends Liara an apologetic frown, and Liara dips her gaze down to her desk. Her new focus only brings with it the sharp reminder of what she and Shepard had previously been discussing, and her blush flares up, tenfold.

“Jane Shepard is a hardworking student,” she finds herself saying, the words bubbling up from her mouth before she can make any sense of them. “She came here to learn, not… engage in scandalous behaviour, and you should take care not to circulate any ill rumours about her. She has a difficult enough time relating to the rest of the student body without that added pressure.”

It’s defensive, she thinks.

It’s _far too_ defensive, and she pales at the thought of looking up, again, and seeing a spark of recognition on Chahla’s face. She was the first friend that Liara ever made when she began working at the university, and she is a dear one, although their conflicting personalities often means that their opinions clash when not centred on historical events.

Still, Chahla was the only asari who never balked at her face when they saw that a maiden, and one still so young (one with _her_ reputation), had filled the empty History Professor position. Liara had liked her from the first moment she saw her, and she does not want their friendship to sour. She lifts her gaze slowly, hesitantly, and is relieved to see Chahla looking more contrite than amused.

“Liara,” she says, so gently that Liara speaks up before she can go on.

“I’m sorry. I know you were joking. It’s… it’s been one of those mornings.”

“So it seems,” Chahla says, whether she believes it or not, and Liara is thankful again for their friendship when she spots her unpatronising smile. “The question is, is it a hide in your office and eat Serrice Dark Chocolates kind of morning, or more of an avoid all responsibilities and consume as much tea as you can before your next class begins?”

“I promised to look over your thesis,” Liara’s hedges, but her lips quirk into a smile. “The former, definitely.”

“Good choice,” Chahla grins and begins to stand up, tucking Shepard’s chair in beneath the desk. She rubs the swell of her stomach and waits patiently for Liara to join her, the straps of her handbag slung over one shoulder. “I can barely handle a cup of tea, these days, without having to get up halfway through. Oh, come on, if I think any longer on it I’ll have to rush off to the washroom before we can even make it back to my office.”

She steps into the doorway, triggering the door’s automatic sensor and granting them access into the corridor.

And Liara, smiling, follows her out.

 

Taleer’s office is not far, but a few doors down from Liara’s own.

The floorplan is identical to Liara’s, but Chahla somehow manages to make the space look light and airy in comparison to Liara’s damask little room. (It may have something to do with the open blinds, Liara muses. If her mother ever saw the space, she’d never hear the end of it. As it is, there’s little that annoys Liara quicker than light shining on her terminal screen.)

As soon as they enter the office, Liara is struck by the smell and the sound of the rain. Chahla moves to close the window before she can get used to it, and the two take seats in matching red armchairs away from the desk. Liara sets her bag down, pleased to be rid of the weight of it, and sinks a little further into the chair. It has a low back and extra cushion, and Liara’s stress seems to seep out of her muscles as she relaxes into it.

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” Chahla tells her when she attempts to move the pile of paperwork on the table between them. “You can look at it later. We have business to attend to, first.”

With that, she pulls open a drawer in the table and extracts a box of chocolates. Liara smiles despite herself. “You spoil me.”

“Somebody has to.” She lifts the lid on the box and fits it underneath before selecting a chocolate in the shape of a seashell. Once it’s past her lips, she shoves the box towards Liara, giving it a haphazard shake. “As many as you like,” she says, not bothering to swallow first, “I’m already the size of a small cruiser.”

Liara pops a little dome-shaped chocolate into her mouth and sighs when the shell breaks, releasing its oozing filling onto her tongue. “You’re two years pregnant,” she manages to get out, swallowing. At her wrist, her omni-tool releases a short pulse-like vibration, alerting her to a new message in her personal account. She opens it while Chahla plucks the second seashell-shaped chocolate from the box. “And you’re glowing.”

When she spots Shepard’s name at the top of her inbox, Liara has to fight a smile.

[ _Rain check?_ ]

She casts Chahla a quick glance as she opens a reply box, and hopes her expression comes across as apologetic before she begins typing. { _Your place or mine?_ } Apparently, her intent fails, as Chahla’s expression pinches with something that looks an awful lot like smugness. She tilts her head to one side and arches her brow at Liara, until Liara makes a dismissive scoffing noise in the back of her throat.

“Who is that?”

“Nobody.”

“Well, now I _know_ that it’s _somebody_.”

“A friend.” Chahla’s lips purse. Liara sighs, concedes, “a _close_ friend,” and tries not to smile too widely at Chahla’s noise of approval. “I thought I came in here to eat your chocolate and proofread your thesis.”

Chahla dismisses the suggestion with a haphazard gesture of her hand. “That was before I knew we had better things to talk about.”

Liara shakes her head, but does not disagree. Her features soften in a way that Chahla has so rarely seen them. When she first met her, she had assumed Liara’s serious countenance was a part of her plan to prove her maturity, but had quickly realised that she was wrong. It’s in Liara’s nature to take to her work with as much focus as she does pleasure, if not more so. Chahla can’t help but feel moved by the sight of that excitable, maidenly look in her friend’s eyes, now that she’s seen it.

“Is it serious?”

She slides one hand around the girth of her stomach, and the colour in Liara’s cheeks deepens when she catches the gesture.

“I—I suppose, I mean, I think it is.”

“You _suppose_?” Chahla presses, frowning, and Liara looks away.

“We… haven’t been together for very long.” Chahla waves that dismissive hand, again, accompanied by an impatient noise. “I just… There are different levels of _serious_. I’m not sure which are even available to us.”

“Levels..?” Chahla’s frown deepens. “Explain.”

Liara forces herself to meet Chahla’s gaze. She struggles to think of an answer, and feels her omni-tool pulse at her wrist, again, with another message from Shepard that quickens her heart. “How do you plan for a future,” she begins, not giving herself time enough to think, to let the words lodge themselves in her throat, “with somebody who may only live for another hundred years, if you’re lucky?”

“You’re talking about starting a family?” Chahla asks, and releases a short breath when Liara nods her head. “Goddess, it _is_ serious…”

“No, don’t misunderstand me, it is still new,” Liara rushes to get out. “But…”

“You foresee it lasting?”

“Yes,” Liara agrees, and bites her bottom lip. “I often find myself thinking of what it would be like, if only I were a few hundred years older.”

Chahla’s gaze turns unbearably sympathetic. Liara remembers the sensation at her wrist and uses it as a shameless excuse to break eye-contact. She opens Shepard’s message and feels, perhaps, a slither of relief at the [ _Mine._ ] that she finds there. _Yes_ , she thinks, _Goddess, but I am_. She closes her omni-tool, lowering her wrist to the chair arm, and finds the courage to meet Chahla’s gaze again.

“Liara,” her friend says, with a smile that isn’t quite a smile, “you’ll have plenty of time for all of that.”

Liara nods and steals another chocolate.

 _Not with Jane_ , she thinks, and cracks the hard shell between her teeth.

 

 

When Liara arrives, Jack is just leaving, hovering in the doorway with a rucksack at her feet and an honest-to-god coat over her shoulders. She offers little more than a nod of acknowledgement when Liara steps through the door, admiring her attire. It’s dull green in colour, with a fur-trimmed hood that Jack pulls down from her head – it’s about as polite a gesture as Liara has ever seen her make, and it distracts her, for all of three smiling seconds, from spotting the hat on her head.

“Oh,” she says, as soon as her eyes zero in on the woolly winter hat, and Jack lets out a huff.

“I’m out of here,” she says as Shepard appears from her bedroom, clad in thick socks and a Christmas sweater, despite the date. Her cheeks have turned a pleasant pink colour that makes Liara’s, in turn, flare up in a deeper blue. “I’ll be back tomorrow some time, probably, so don’t worry about being quiet.”

“Enjoy your date, Jack,” Shepard crows, and Jack flips her off before leaving. Once the door closes again, Shepard slinks in behind Liara, wrapping her arms around her waist and grinning against the side of her crest. “Hey,” she says, and Liara twists around in her arms, a pleased look on her face.

“She’s wearing her present,” she says, and Shepard laughs at her giddy expression. “She likes it?”

“She’s never out of it.”

“I’m glad.” Her face falls a little. “I did worry… but more so that she never seems to dress appropriately for the weather.”

“Oh, you’ve been looking, have you?”

“ _Jane_.”

Shepard snorts into her shoulder, then tilts her head to press a kiss to the side of her exposed throat. One of Liara’s hands comes up to the back of her head, fingers carding through her hair, holding her in place. She releases a quiet sigh when Shepard scrapes her teeth along soft, blue skin.

“I missed you today,” she confesses, her voice low in her throat, eyes closed.

“I’ve missed you _all week_.”

Liara makes a sympathetic noise, smirking, and wraps her other arm tight around Shepard’s waist. It feels good to finally have her like this, warm and solid in her arms, hot breath against her neck. Liara feels her body reacting to the contact much quicker than she’s used to, and shudders. When Shepard feels the light tremor, she lifts her head, eyes heavy-lidded but alert.

“Do you want something to drink?” she asks, and Liara shakes her head.

When Shepard spots her moving in again, sees the intention in her eyes as they fall to her lips, her mouth quirks into a smile. She meets her halfway; seconds later, Liara’s tongue is pressing into her mouth, and Shepard groans against her lips, welcoming the contact. Her hands fall to rounded hips, fingers testing the skin there before slipping around to her ass.

“I’ve really fucking missed you,” she whispers against Liara’s lips, and then feels two soft hands take her face, thumbs by her cheekbones, holding her in place as Liara pulls her back into a forceful kiss. It’s about as controlling as Shepard has ever witnessed her, and her eyes open with a touch of surprise when she realises that Liara is backing her up against a wall.

She makes contact without complaint. Liara’s fingers on either side of her face keep the back of her head from hitting the wall, leaving enough room for one hand to slip around to the hair at the back of her head. When Liara experiences the urge to pull, this time, she embraces it – closes her fist at Shepard’s roots and gently tugs her head back.

Shepard lets herself be guided back, and shudders when a thigh finds its way, snug and warm, between her own.

“God…”

Liara watches as her cheeks flush pink, enamoured by the sight. Shepard is panting and quivering against her, and the power behind her position only arouses her more. She loosens her fingers some, slides them ever so slightly higher, and takes another fistful of Shepard’s hair. When she tugs this time, just a little harder than before, Shepard’s hips buck against her thigh.

“Fuck, Liara…”

Liara dips her mouth to Shepard’s throat, covering her in open-mouthed, smiling kisses.

“Please,” she sighs, her words coming without thought or filter, “ _fuck Liara_.”

Shepard’s hips buck again at the words, or perhaps the tone that they’re said with, or maybe even just because it’s the first time she’s ever heard anything so un-Liara-like come out of Liara’s mouth. She feels herself pulsing and wet, already, and Liara’s thigh is not enough. Her hands grip her by the hips, urging her closer. Her thigh offers her a frustrating amount of friction – enough to tease and nothing more. She lets her head fall back, eyes closed, and whimpers loudly as Liara’s teeth sink into neck.

It’s the soft growl in the back of Liara’s throat that finally pushes Shepard into action. Her body stiffens away from the wall, one arm slipping around Liara’s waist to keep her steady as she walks the two of them away from it. Liara stumbles against her, wraps both arms around her shoulders and holds on there when Shepard, quickly tiring of their shuffling, slips her hands down to Liara’s thighs and hauls her up.

Liara’s skirt makes it awkward. She can’t wrap her legs around Shepard’s hips, but Shepard doesn’t seem to mind. Blushing and panting, Liara wiggles her hips, trying to hitch the hem of the skirt up to her thighs. Before she manages, Shepard alleviates the problem altogether by setting Liara down on the edge of the breakfast bar.

The lift has her shoulders flexing beneath Liara’s arms, and she feels almost sorry to have been set down – would be, too, if her seated position didn’t allow Shepard to push the damn skirt up to mid-thigh. Her warm hands push the rest of the way beneath the hem, fingers seeking the band of material that’s wrapped around Liara’s hips. She nearly slips off the breakfast bar completely in her urge to get closer, but Shepard quickly fills the space in front of her, laughing against her collarbones.

“Jane,” Liara sighs, like a plea. She’s a full head taller than Shepard, up here, and has to bend to reach her mouth in a kiss. She feels one heel slip precariously from her foot, hears the clatter of it as it hits the metallic floor beneath her, and tucks her bare foot behind Shepard’s knee. “Jane, please…”

She repeats the words like a mantra when Shepard slips the blazer from her shoulders and begins pressing kisses into her cleavage. That earlier feeling – that raw rush of panic and fear at being so exposed in her classroom – returns with added clarity. She’s consumed at once with the urge to fall into Shepard’s mind and stay there for as long as she can hold on. And the reason for it all, Goddess, the feeling that had consumed her earlier…

 _I’m in love_ , she thinks, experiencing a moment of startling clarity among the haze of her own arousal. _I’m in love… and it is terrifying_.

Her heart jumps inside her chest, quivers with the realisation, and then again when Shepard’s teeth graze and then clamp down around the top of her exposed breast. A surprised cry falls from her lips, her eyes widening. She pushes her hands against Shepard’s wrists, removing them, and uses the brief moment of confusion to slide herself carelessly down from the breakfast bar.

Liara lands heavily and awkwardly, falling against Shepard’s chest. She is quick to discard her other heel, kicking it off somewhere while she rights her skirt, and Shepard stares at her in open-mouthed concern. A stammering question tries to make it from her lips – Liara thinks she hears her name among it, perhaps, but she does not listen. She takes Shepard’s hands in hers and directs them around to her back, until the zipper of her skirt is pressing into her palm.

When Liara gives her a purposeful push, Shepard’s pupils dilate.

She feels a vague tugging sensation as the zipper catches and draws down half an inch; Shepard releases a shuddering sigh and Liara lets her eyes close in content. _I’m in love and it’s so wonderful_ , she thinks, and lets her consciousness brush against Shepard’s. Her mind buzzes with the pull of the meld, but she does not let herself take a hold of it, yet.

“Jane,” she says. “Jane,” like she’s asking permission.

The fingers at the back of her skirt go still.

Liara makes that first, unrushed contact and feels… _panic_. She frowns against the sensation, uncertain, and then realises that it is Shepard’s – realises, all at once, what she’s doing. She draws the meld back quickly, nearly swaying from the sense of vertigo, and opens her eyes wide to take in Shepard’s expression.

“Goddess,” she says, breathless, almost voiceless, and quickly swallows. “I’m sorry, I thought…”

Shepard cuts her off with a soft curse. Her hands have retracted completely, now, and she takes a staggering step backwards. When she lifts her hands to scrub her face, Liara notices at once just how much they’re shaking. Her heart jumps into her throat and she presses a hand to it, the other to her stomach, forcing herself to stay still while Shepard recovers from the shock.

“I—I didn’t mean to do that, I let myself get carried away,” she gets out in a rush, and Shepard finally uncovers her face. “I should have brought it up sooner.”

Her expression is weary, uncomfortable. When she manages to speak, her voice sounds strained.

“Yeah,” she says, like she can brush it off, but she’s still panting and her hands are visibly unsteady. Liara’s eyes are still vaguely black, pupils blown, and Shepard shudders at the sight – at the unmistakable reminder of how close she almost came to… “I wish you had.” She coughs, clears her throat, and manages a strained look that Liara thinks is supposed to be a smile. “Ah… sorry.”

“Please don’t apologise,” Liara says, stepping forward. “I… Jane, may I ask you something?”

Shepard recognises the look on her face and instantly knows what that question will be. The energy seeps out of her like a leak in the bottom of a bucket. She sucks her bottom lip into her mouth and releases it slowly, biding whatever dwindling time she has left. Worse, still, Liara sees her reaction and becomes visibly subdued.

“I don’t want to pressure you,” she says, not quite timid but nervous, and Shepard wants to hide her face, again.

“But you’re still asking.”

Liara hesitates. There is no hint of amusement in Shepard’s voice, nor in the hard line of her lips. It strikes Liara as the first time that that brittle, frustrated, near-exhausted tone has ever been directed towards her. She feels a cool stab of something – guilt, she thinks, that tastes more like acceptance when she broadens her shoulders and does not back down.

“I am,” she agrees. “Because I believe there is more to your refusal, and I don’t understand why you would keep it from me.”

Shepard sighs like she’s frustrated, turns on the spot, like her heart isn’t pounding double its regular speed inside of her chest, hard and painful. She almost presses a hand to it, tells it _shut up, shut up, don’t let her hear_. She falls back into that frustration – into an anger that’s mainly directed at herself – and all of that fear.

“It isn’t…”

“Isn’t?” Liara shakes her head. “It isn’t what? Jane, if you want me to wait for you, I will. Goddess knows I will. But… I’m right, aren’t I? There is something more to this.” She takes a step forward, sighs, and stops herself. “I can’t help you if you won’t speak to me,” she says, quietly, threading her fingers together.

“Jane,” pleading, almost as frustrated as Shepard feels herself, “please, tell me.”

Shepard panics. She directs all of that fear and frustration at Liara and makes a mistake.

“It isn’t – _natural_.”

The words fall out of her mouth like a rushed expletive – said in frustration, in distraction, in the hopes that it will buy her some time. It’s only seconds later, and prompted by Liara’s stunned silence, that Shepard realises what she has just said. It is an awful moment of clarity, and it has Shepard spinning on the spot, her gaze searching out Liara and then shrinking from her when she sees the hurt, disbelieving look on her face.

“What isn’t natural?”

It sounds so cold, coming from her, and so unlike Shepard’s intentions that she audibly stammers. “That’s not—”

“ _What_ isn’t?”

She thinks, now would be the time to admit to her fear. She thinks, what is the point, if she’s ruined this already?

“The— the meld,” she throws an arm out with it, careless, like she can minimize the damage that way, “it’s not—we don’t—it’s not something that we _do_. It’s not something _I_ can do.”

Liara watches her silently, her face in hard lines. When she speaks again, her voice sounds as weak as paper. A lump wedges itself tight inside of Shepard’s throat when she hears her.

“You always knew… I never pretended that I wouldn’t want this, I never kept it from you. You knew what you were getting into, Jane, you know who I am.”

Shepard tries to open her mouth, but that lump is growing tighter, now, cutting off airways, causing a throbbing ache inside her throat. She clenches her jaw and watches, unable to speak, as Liara takes in a deep breath and straightens her back, lifts her head high. Shepard’s own body freezes – locks into place. She watches Liara prepare to leave, watches her slip back into heels and the blazer, and she can’t do a damn thing to stop her.

Liara can barely meet her eyes when she speaks. She focuses on the door and does not blink for fear of pushing her welling tears over her eyelids. “I wish you had told me that you felt this way earlier,” she says, and takes in a deep, shuddering breath. “I… don’t think I can see you again.”

She makes it to the door and hesitates, a hand hovering above the pressure pad, her back turned and faintly shaking, and Shepard _cannot move_.

“Goodbye, Jane.”

The door closes behind her, leaving Shepard stiff, and still, and numb.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, holy shit, I hit over 400 kudos? (I’m a lil blown away idk what to say?) It’s always such a surprise that people even read this, never mind enjoy it, but I’m so grateful. All of your comments and kudos really keep me going when it gets difficult to write. 
> 
> Speaking of which, if anyone feels like keeping me company with some questions, discussions, or just to say hey, you’re more than welcome to hit up my tumblr (luthory.tumblr.com) while you wait for the next chapter. I’ll reply to all non-anon messages privately. :)

Jack is craving coffee when she gets back.

Jack is tired and stiff and overly anxious to get out of the open, exposed corridor outside of her apartment. Her eyes flit between either end of it, to the doors of her neighbours’ places, and the little grey bird that hovers on the ledge just outside of the window adjacent to the staircase. Overhead, a train passes by with enough speed to set the building trembling in its foundations. The bird at the window wavers, flaps its wings, but perseveres.

A draft from the staircase winds itself between Jack’s heavy coat collar and the woolly hat atop her head; she shivers once, but still lingers outside. From her perch beside her apartment door, her back to the wall and one booted foot lifted behind her for comfort, she scans the corridor again and smiles at the accented, unrushed voice coming from her earpiece.

Every few seconds, she makes a grunt of acknowledgement, and the talking goes on. Ideas are reeled off that Jack had only caught the tail end of earlier that morning, lying in bed, exhausted and frustrated, but accepting her fate. She’d been pushed out of the door before she could fall back asleep, and _work, Jack, I have work to do, don’t you have a bloody job yet?_

Now, she represses a sigh and tries to make sense of the words filling her ear. It’s far too complicated for her to take any real interest in. Something about tissue growth and quasi-synthetic limbs. For a second, she even contemplates bringing up Shepard’s name, but quickly reconsiders. She thinks, too, that she could mute her earpiece now and go about her regular routine – could slip through the apartment and into her dark little room without alerting Shepard to her presence, or her caller to her deception.

Still, she waits, and she listens, and she smiles a little wider when her earpiece crackles with a familiar note of laughter.

It’s sheer paranoia, in the end, that drives her back inside. Another train sounds, too close and too loud, and Jack rattles for more reason than one when she realises how long she’s been standing outside. Scratching at the back of her neck, she attempts to neutralise her expression. She takes one last look down each end of the corridor, at the bird that is still nestled into the window ledge, and asks, “so you could grow your own test-tube fuck up, if you had the lab?”

It sets off a rant on morality and ethics that does nothing to make Jack smile (yet, still, a flicker of something in the corners of her lips when a frustrated sigh carries out over her earpiece). She thinks, she could still get away with going undetected by Shepard, if she’s quick. She thinks, _fuck it_ , and hits the pressure pad on the door.

The apartment is revealed to her with a sibilant hiss, and for a second Jack is hit with the smell of cigarette smoke and take-out… stale, barely-touched take-out. She takes three steps inside and stops, lets the door slide shut behind her, and feels the stagnant heat of the apartment crowd in against her bare neck. On the kitchen counters are the remains of a dinner-for-one. Jack does not have to wonder what happened to it: sitting directly next to the still-open carton of noodles is an empty bottle – and no glasses.

She sniffs the air again, frowns, and checks Shepard’s door.

“Hey,” she says, and there must be something about her tone, because the voice over her earpiece instantly quiets. “I need to go. I’ll call you later.”

Once she’s deactivated her omni-tool, Jack treads in that careful way that she has, silent despite her heavy boots, and shifts her hat to uncover one ear. She stops, holds her breath, and listens. When nothing but the silence of the apartment reveals itself, she finishes her walk to Shepard’s door, and considers knocking – even raises a fist like she’s the type of person who cares about this kind of shit. She frowns, lowers it, and stalks back into the kitchen.

The expletives that leave her lips as she tosses the remains of the take-out into the trash are for her own benefit. The bottle goes next, into the bin that they use for recycling, and if the fluidity of the act surprises Jack, she doesn’t let it annoy her. She casts another glance at Shepard’s bedroom door, and frowns at the fleeting feeling in her chest that she isn't willing to name.

“Fuck…”

 

By the time Shepard emerges, Jack has unpacked and rooted herself to the breakfast bar with a datapad and a headpiece that Shepard doesn’t ask about. That, in and of itself, isn’t unusual. Shepard stopped asking what she spends her time searching the extranet for after she sent several poorly ‘shopped images of the Commander’s face on a porn star’s body to her omni-tool.

(Jack had been inspired. Shepard, not so much.)

Still, Shepard doesn’t acknowledge her at _all_ , but teeters precariously into the fridge. The door is flung open, and each bottle and jar in its shelves rattle and clang when it travels as far as its hinge will allow, and then snaps back. Shepard does not flinch. She’s wearing yesterday’s Christmas sweater and little else, other than a tangle of hair and her own sour expression.

Jack notices the way that she favours her left leg, though the prosthetic is attached. She doubts it’s been taken off since yesterday, and is becoming more of a hindrance than an aid.

(Vaguely, she shudders at the thought of having such intimate knowledge of somebody that she isn’t fucking, but manages to push the thought away with a bout of concern – and if _that_ doesn’t just make her shudder all over again…)

Shepard searches the door like a bleary toddler, handling each bottle clumsily and then pressing her nose almost to the label in her attempts to read it. If Jack was any more of a bastard, she’d call the entire show pathetic to Shepard’s face. Instead, she keeps the quip to her thoughts, and stretches like she hasn’t been waiting two hours for Shepard to show her face.

“What’s up, Tinkerbell?”

She’s expecting a reply. A _Tinkerbell was blonde, Jack_ , or some other comment about the childhood that they don’t speak about. Instead, Shepard shuts the fridge door with unnecessary force, and turns to find Jack with two bloodshot eyes. It takes her a moment. When she has her within her sights, Shepard slumps into the opposite end of the breakfast bar and leans there like she needs it to stay standing.

“You throw out my drink?” she asks, slurred, rubbing at one eye. “I left i' here.”

Jack watches her a moment longer, the way her hazy eyes take three seconds to complete a blink, and pokes her tongue into the edges of her lips. “It was empty,” she shrugs, and Shepard slips further into the bar, her elbows on the surface holding her weight. “You have class today.”

Shepard tilts her head to one side as though she expects to find either a clock or a calendar there to support Jack’s claims. Whether she believes her or not, she shrugs both shoulders and dips her head with a noncommittal grunt. Her eyes settle on Jack’s datapad, her mouth downturned and one hand picking at the rough patch of skin on her bottom lip.

“Somethin’ happen last night?” Jack asks when the silence gets too much. She’s beginning to wonder why she’s doing this at all – has been since she unpacked her rucksack and left her bedroom. She doesn’t question her motives. Frankly, she’d prefer not to know. “Something happen with Blue?”

Shepard makes that noise again. She dips her head low, her forehead almost touching the bar, and rubs at the faintly protruding notches of spine at the back of her neck. One hand slips beneath her collar of her sweater, and Jack can hear the way her fingers scratch over the same patch of skin where the label’s been irritating her.

She’s half expecting her question to remain unanswered, for Shepard to ignore her and slip back into her bedroom. She’s surprised to discover that she wouldn’t be content with that outcome. She ignores _that_ curious thought, too. After a quiet pause, Shepard lifts her head again and makes her way around the breakfast bar, struggling onto a stool.

“I fucked it up,” she says, one hand covering her mouth like she’d rather keep the words in. “Fucked up everything.”

Jack leans on the edge of her seat, unnerved. “With Blue?” she presses, and only frowns deeper when Shepard nods her head, eyes closing. “In one night?”

“Mmn.”

“ _How_?”

Shepard opens her eyes to frown at her, but Jack sees them welling up before she can control the tears. Her lips pull back in a grimace that she can’t quite hide, but Shepard seems to feed from her discomfort, refusing to break eye contact. Jack, with that same thrill of watching a burning building, can’t look away.

“How?” she repeats, and Shepard drops her hand from her mouth and blows out a long breath, sweeps one arm out as if to say, _who the fuck knows_. The ever-present threat of those tears tells Jack that she _does_ know, and unless she wants Shepard crying on her, wet with tears and snot, she shouldn’t ask for anything more.

Finally, a piece of her own advice that she gladly clings to.

“Shit, Shepard,” she says, blows the words out in place of something better to say. “Shit.”

In the stool beside her, Shepard nods her head in silent agreement.

 

The week continues in a similar fashion.

Shepard’s classes fall to the wayside of her drunken pity party. Jack tries to continue on as normal, but every time she attempts to tell herself that she _does not care_ , Shepard sinks an inch lower into whatever depressive dark hole that she’s stumbled into, and it becomes abundantly clear that Jack’s the one who’ll have to reach in and haul her ass back out again.

Jack troubles herself with worry, and then more worry about being worried at all, and then anger. Resentment? Near the end of the week, she skips town, lands back on the doorstep of this month’s fancy hotel, and sneers at the receptionist who makes two separate phone calls before finally admitting her entrance to an elevator.

The door to room 108 opens when she tries it, and Jack sighs in almost-relief when she leans her back against it to press it closed again. Her hooded eyes fall shut, her chest rising slowly with each deep breath. The room smells like fresh laundry and a recent breakfast; it’s warm and inviting in a way that’s become familiar, even comforting. Jack peels herself out of her coat and hat and lets them fall over a dressing table chair; the heavy fur hood knocks several perfume bottles and lotions into clanking disruption, but Jack steadies them with one hand before any can lose balance.

Her boots had dried off in the short walk between reception and the elevator, but she removes them, anyway, perches on the edge of rumpled bedding and pulls at the laces until she can slip her feet free. Once they’re off, she leaves the boots on the carpet and kicks herself back onto the bed. She falls into the pillows and luxuriates in the way that her body sinks in.

It’s almost unnerving, she thinks, just how much she’s come to appreciate the softness of an expensive mattress.

Still, Jack could fall asleep here, and almost does, too. The pillow beneath her smells like hairspray and face cream, and Jack turns her head into it, buries her nose into the plush material and breathes it deeply in. (It’s almost unnerving, too, how much she’s come to appreciate _this_.)

Before she can settle there, that warm comforting feeling turns to a warm _uncomfortable_ feeling, and Jack wriggles her hips into the bunched up duvet in her attempts to alleviate the sudden ache – hates that it takes so little as the smell of her lover to work her up, and would never admit to it, not to her face.

After a few unsuccessful attempts to nestle back into the bed, she pushes herself up with a sigh and leaves behind the comfort that is no longer comfort without the presence of a second, warmer body wrapped up in the sheets with her. The door at the opposite end of the room is closed but unlocked when she tries it. Jack slips inside, closes it in much the same way she had the previous door, and waits there a moment to take in the scene.

She finds the bath filled with both water and bubbles, and its sole occupant smiling, unsurprised.

“I need advice,” Jack tells her, and tugs quickly at her belt buckle.

 

By Thursday night, Shepard sobers up in a bath of lukewarm water with a tray of fries balancing precariously on top of her chest.

She finds the apartment empty not long after, once she’s dried and hopped her way, crutch beneath one armpit, to the dining room table that sees more essay plans than it does meals. She pokes in a pair of earbuds, just in case, and activates her private computer. The screen blinks automatically to the opened, unfinished assignment that she’d let it die on. Shepard scans the paragraph she had left off at, a whole 1,400 words below her word limit, and sighs.

It’s almost refreshing to get back to work. It chisels a small portion of her guilt away, and, at the very least, it isn’t History.

(And just how fucking fitting is _that_ title, she thinks?)

She works for a solid hour before Jack returns home, spots the little orange buds poking out of Shepard’s ears, and mercifully ignores her while she sets up her own work at the breakfast bar. After that, Shepard’s concentration levels dwindle. She skips a final proofread of her essay and closes the lid on her computer until the sleek, metallic grey of it all but blends in with the surface of the table.

Her breathing sounds heavy in her plugged ears, like she’s submerged under water, or floating through dark space. Behind her, she feels Jack’s presence as keenly as the slim tip of a blade by the hairs on her neck. She closes her eyes, swallows too loudly, and then removes each earbud one at a time. The world returns to her with the tapping of Jack’s blunt fingers against a plastic screen. The rhythm’s almost soothing, in the way that background noise often is if she can focus so much of her attention on it, that the thoughts inside her head turn mute.

“You wanna talk about it?”

Shepard rolls an earbud between her finger and thumb. If she were in any better state of mind, she’d question Jack’s concern, perhaps. Instead, a quiet, “no,” and Jack’s tap, tap, tapping resumes. At least, for a full five seconds later, while Shepard sits quietly holding her breath.

“Look,” Jack sighs, the sound of her datapad hitting the bar, and Shepard opens her eyes but does not turn around. “I’m not gonna tell you that you’re gonna be alright. Of course you are – it’s not the end of the fucking world. That said…” At the sound of a stool scraping out against the floor, Shepard tilts her head around to one side, only to find Jack watching her, frowning deeply, like she’s pissed off that she even has to do this.

Shepard shifts on her chair to properly meet her stare – figures she’d best get this out of the way, now, before Jack actually assumes that she needs to complete this entire routine. She sits with her hands on the either side of the seat, her thumbs tucked partially beneath her thighs, and bites her tongue while she waits for Jack to finish.

And Jack, as always, does not disappoint.

“I think you’re an idiot for not trying to fix whatever’s happened.”

Shepard watches her for a few seconds longer, and then frowns. “Since when do you have an opinion on my love life?” she asks, feeling a burn up her throat. “We barely know each other, Jack, you don’t have to do this.” She tries to leave it there, but that warmth, again, in her tongue this time, drawing her brows in tighter: “Why do you even care? This has nothing to do with you.”

She’s angry enough that Jack’s setting jaw, the straightening of her back, almost excites her. The near-frustrated look on Jack’s faces pales back into that quiet kind of fury that typically sits around her, like a glaze of biotic energy waiting to be discharged. Jack runs her tongue over her teeth, and then again over her top lip, before fixing Shepard with her narrowed eyes.

“Good, get angry,” she says, and there’s nothing gentle about her tone of voice, this time. “Yell at me, but we both know that’s not gonna make you feel better.” Shepard opens her mouth to disagree, but Jack doesn’t let her get a word in. “Just don’t tell me that you’re making anything better by hiding in here.”

“I’m not hiding.”

Jack’s face pinches with a cruel smirk, but she’s already won that argument, and she knows it.

“Alright, keep lying. _That’s_ not gonna make you feel better, either, but maybe you’ll actually start believing yourself one day. Or maybe, by then, you’ll already be over her, and so what the fuck, right? But you don’t get to tell me what I give a shit about. And maybe I’m the last person who should be giving you advice on this, but you haven’t left the apartment all week, and I don’t see anybody else coming ‘round here to kick your ass.

“So, Shepard,” and she leans forward, both hands on her knees, “get your shit together. Go and see her.”

For one stark moment, Shepard’s anger is strong enough that she almost argues back. It leaves her as quickly as the breath leaves her lungs on one long, dissatisfying sigh, and it does not return. It sinks into her stomach, instead, squeezes it there and makes her feel it in the corners of her eyes. She tilts her head away, turns in her chair, as though she can avoid the feeling altogether, if she can just break eye contact with Jack.

Her attention shifts, instead, to her closed fist on top of the table. One squashed earbud falls free as her fingers release, and she watches as it slowly fills out its regular shape.

“She doesn’t want to see me.”

“Of course sh—”

“ _Jack_ ,” louder, now, with the same tone that led people into impossible battles. “She doesn’t want to see me.”

There’s silence, after that, quick with Jack’s unsaid retaliation. Shepard waits a moment and sighs too soon. She looks back to her work computer, flicks one earbud out of the way, and figures that she’s getting no more of her essay finished within the next few minutes. She thinks, with the due date looming in over 24 hours, she can live with that.

She sits for a moment longer before summoning the strength to stand, crutch in one hand. She keeps her back to Jack as much as she can, and moves too quickly to the coffee machine. Her hand shakes as she shoves a mug beneath the nozzle; she both contemplates and quickly dismisses the thought that perhaps she shouldn’t have another pot of coffee before bed. The idea of sinking back beneath her duvet and not having to think about any of this for the next eight or so hours leaves her longing, but Shepard knows that she won’t be sleeping tonight. Not like she wishes to, at least.

If she’s going to be up half the night, she can at least be doing something useful. That essay needs finishing, after all.

When the coffee machine signals its end, Shepard retrieves her hot mug and slides it free. She turns back towards the dining table and prepares to set the mug down, find a pair of earphones, and finally turn in her last assignment, when her crutch catches on a kitchen counter, sticks, and sends the upper handle into her armpit at a jarring angle. Her body pivots to the right, the jab throwing her shoulder.

As if watching it play out before her, Shepard sees herself going down, and knows that she’s not going to be able to save both herself and her drink. She releases the handle and lurches for a counter, instead, steadying herself as ceramic smashes against metal and sends hot coffee burning up her legs.

“ _Fuck me._ ”

Jack flinches at the table – does not quite jump like a skittish cat, but is unnerved and instantly furious. She watches Shepard swear and rant and attempt to dry off her legs for ten full seconds, breathes in slowly like she knows how, and then asks in a tight voice, “Want me to grab the broom?”

“ _No_ ,” Shepard barks. “No. Thanks.” She swears again, throws the dish towel aside, and looks down at the mess beneath her. “Think I deserved that one.”

She teeters towards the counters, gripping one by the edge as she lowers herself to the floor, and tries not to wince at the stretch. Her crutch slips free from her arm, unsupported, and Shepard lets herself land partially in her own mess as she attempts to gather all the little pieces of shattered ceramic in what is left of the bottom of her mug.

She’s cleared almost half of her the mess up when it happens – when something warm and wet slips down her cheek and into the warm and wet seeping in around her knees. She tries to sniff it back up, and then again, until the sniffing has her taking in a great, gulping breath. After that, a shuddery release, and she can no longer stop the tears from falling.

Shepard cries even as she reaches for the little pieces of mug that have escaped her, one hand on the floor for support and the other reaching beneath the breakfast bar. From her vantage point, she sees Jack’s booted feet shift, uncertain, and then finally leave the stool’s lower support bar. Seconds later, Shepard can hear Jack’s footsteps over her own erratic sobs. She’s expecting the hands that slip in under her arms, hauling her gently backwards and out of the pool of cooling coffee.

“Shit,” Jack sighs, her voice close to Shepard’s ear, and lifts her relatively well despite their obvious differences in size. “Come on.”

Shepard lets herself be moved. Jack avoids all of the little sharp pieces on the floor, extracts her from the kitchen altogether, and sits her down on a couch. When Jack moves to take off her wet leggings, Shepard lets her. They fall with a wet slap to floor and Shepard shivers and shudders and cries about how badly she’s fucked up. She bends over double and hides her face in her hands, and then cries even harder when Jack sits with her, arm around her back, not moving even as Shepard swears and chokes on her own tears.

 

When she’s done – when she’s finally quiet, one hand twisted in her own hair, propping her head up with an elbow on her thigh – Jack lets that slim arm fall back from her shoulders, and replaces it instead with a sharp slap to her upper back. There’s enough weight behind it to momentarily drag Shepard out of her own self-pity; she swings an incredulous gaze around to Jack, but for all her edges and angles, the look in Jack’s eyes is almost _concerned_ , and it shuts Shepard up before she can complain.

“Time to woman the fuck up, princess.”

And, just like that, the moment bursts.

Shepard deflates with a sigh, turns her face back into her hand and rubs it like she can rub the last ten minutes out of existence. Still, she’s thankful for Jack’s callous nature; if the moment got any more sentimental, she isn’t exactly sure that it wouldn’t set her off again, and there’s only so much crying that she can handle in one night.

“I know,” she murmurs into her hand.

“We all get to be pathetic and angry every once in a while, but you can fix this. That’s what you do, isn’t it?”

Shepard gives a humourless huff. “I work better with guns than I do feelings.”

Jack says something under her breath that Shepard probably doesn’t want to hear, and so she ignores it, lets it go. She turns to Jack, instead, with a look of despair and something she’s willing to call fear, and Jack clenches her jaw as if she has enough determination for the both of them. Right now, Shepard’s hoping that’s the case.

“Go find her,” she says, jutting her chin towards the front door. “Apologise. Go be obnoxious and in love and, for fuck’s sake, don’t come back here until you’ve made things right, because this is the last time I’m sitting with you while you cry snot all over your face.”

(It’s not exactly a pep talk.

It is the best advice Shepard’s heard in days.)


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I said there would be how many more chapters...? 
> 
> I have a really awful tendency to over write. :) There will probably be five more chapters, who knows. This next one will come in at least two installments - maybe three - because a) it would be too long otherwise, and b) I have no self-control. I'm a bad person, I'm sorry. 
> 
> I hope everyone's had a lovely Christmas/winter holiday/end of December, though!

It’s a long week for Liara.

On Tuesday morning, she showers in too-hot water and fills herself with coffee to make up for a sleepless night. She pulls on a pristine grey dress suit, adds a touch of colour to her cheeks, and goes into work as though nothing has changed – as though her voice does not threaten to break on every other syllable, and there are only so many people who will accept her excuse of being sick with the cold weather.

(She avoids Chahla at all costs. She thinks, if she looks her in the eye and remembers the last conversation they had, she will vomit until she cannot breathe.)

It’s a long week for Liara, and when Saturday comes around, greeting her at mid-afternoon with a stiff neck and a ‘box full of mail, she has a feeling that it is only about to get longer. She stands a moment, lingers like she no longer cares what her Middle Class neighbours think of her bare feet or the robe that barely disguises the lounge wear she fell asleep in the previous night. She picks at lacklustre envelopes and sighs, not sure what she was expecting.

If Jane wanted to get in touch with her, she wouldn’t have to look much further than her omni-tooled wrist.

The thought twists at her mood. Her mouth tastes sour with more than just the half cup of tea that she has left, still warm, on a kitchen counter upstairs, and it must show on her face. When she turns around, catches a familiar figure dressed for the weather, she halts in her steps – halts her neighbour, too, who double- and then triple-takes Liara’s puffy eyes before slowing down.

Aethyta takes her in with one long, knowing look, and sighs like she wants to say, _I could’ve told you this would happen_.

(She catches the exact moment that Liara’s chin wobbles upon seeing her, and bites the comment back.)

Instead: “You okay, kid?” like she doesn’t already have her answer.

Liara takes in a breath as though she is preparing to speak, but all that comes is a quiet exhale and a fresh, glazed look to her eyes. Aethyta sighs again. She takes a step back, holds one arm out to the still-open elevator, and gestures inside with a tilt of her head.

“Come on,” she says, and Liara doesn’t question her, but moves forward, clutching her mail to her chest. The door closes behind them with a quiet whoosh, takes them up the appropriate number of floors, and deposits them again in their shared corridor. Without checking that she's being followed, Liara presses a weak hand to the pressure pad on her front door and grants them access.

Aethyta steps inside behind her. She takes in both the sink filled with dirty dishes and the pot of cooling tea, and twists her lips into one of her many variants of dissatisfaction.

“Think you’re gonna need something a little stronger than that this morning, babe.”

 

Aethyta lets her talk.

She sips at her own spiked tea while Liara tells her the details that she could have guessed at herself, and when Liara’s voice turns tight, when she has to look away at a fixed spot on the wall, when her eyes glaze and glaze and one fat tear wells on the very edge of her eyelid before she can swipe it away, Aethyta tips her head back to finish her drink, because Goddess knows she’ll be needing it.

(She wonders, not for the first time, if she’s about to make something exponentially worse for her estranged daughter.)

Liara sniffs delicately and sits with both hands around her mug. The tea is warm in her belly, and while the alcohol isn’t much of an improvement on the taste, she can’t deny that she feels a little better for having it heavy in her stomach. The rest of her body feels too light, as though having spilled all her secrets has emptied her out. If not for Aethyta, she’d have probably floated away into her own miserable thoughts.

“I really thought that she loved me,” she says. “Why would she… why did she pursue me if the thought of melding with me— _repulsed_ her?”

“Eh,” Aethyta says, drawing the noise out, “you know humans.”

“I took her to see my mother, Aethyta. She… she told me she wanted a future with me.” She stares helplessly at her neighbour, and Aethyta stares helplessly back. She is in over her head, she knows. “Was she pretending this entire time? I don’t think I can believe that… and what did she want from me, if she was?”

“You’re only torturing yourself, thinking about this.”

“But I can’t stop thinking about it,” Liara sighs. “I can’t stop thinking about _her_ , even now.”

“She doesn’t deserve it,” Aethyta grunts, and Liara offers a little, unamused huff, because she thinks she agrees.

“I know, but how do I stop?” She takes a sip of tea, though Aethyta’s silence answers her question for her. “I keep expecting something from her – a call, or just a message. Something to explain why it all happened. We were doing well—I-I thought we were doing more than well, but were we? There were times when she would push me away and I thought I understood why, but did I?”

She deflates with another sigh, and turns her gaze away, looking so lost in that moment that Aethyta almost itches right out of her seat. A shiver runs through her, tingles at the base of her crest, and if she ever gets her hands on this Shepard… She isn’t sure what she wants to do more, hunt the woman herself down, or wrap her daughter up in her arms.

Gestures of comfort do not come naturally to Aethyta, but she thinks she could manage this one.

She thinks, should Liara know who she was, she might even try.

As it is, she sits restlessly in her seat and releases her clenching fingers from her mug, leaving it alone on the table top for fear of breaking it with her bare hands. She crosses her arms, instead, leans back in her chair and figures that she’s played bartender long enough. Liara looks quiet and sad, and if Aethyta hasn’t seen this look before, on many a lonely drunk’s face.

“Hey,” she says, drawing Liara’s attention up to her face, “I don’t know a lot about getting over breakups. I’ve had my fair share, mind, but I don’t handle them as well as I could.”

“Anything has to be better than this,” Liara meekly offers, and Aethyta gives one unsympathetic nod.

And maybe because she’s feeling old and sentimental – maybe because she’s rotten and much crueller than she’s ever given herself credit for – she says, “I had someone, once… a good someone. Made me want to put away the ol’ guns and settle down.” Liara blinks at her in surprise. ( _Noted_ , Aethyta thinks, but doesn’t let it put her off.) “It was damn near perfect, too, for a while.”

“What happened?”

“What always happens: we wanted different things. She put her career first, and I couldn’t do anything about it. Or, maybe I let her.” She offers an inelegant shrug of her shoulders, but her expression is now marred with a deep wrinkle in her brow. “She always did have me wrapped around her finger.”

Liara takes this in with a small frown of her own. “So,” she begins, almost hopefully, “how did you get over her?” That deep wrinkle slowly eases. When Aethyta next meets her gaze, it’s with a look akin to apology, and Liara’s stomach falls even as her heart gives a little jolt. Perhaps, Aethyta now realises, this was the one example she shouldn’t have used. “You didn’t,” Liara surmises, looking both pleased and altogether too miserable. “You’re not, are you?”

“She’s, uh…” She rubs at one eye, contemplating a lie, but the way Liara is watching her with those big, familiar blues breaks her down with a sigh. Instead: “She’s a difficult woman to get over.”

Liara watches her a moment longer, perhaps hoping for an elaboration. She looks away again when it becomes clear that Aethyta has said all that she’s going to on the subject. “I think I know her type.” She looks down at her hands, instead – twines her fingers together to keep them from fidgeting.

“Perhaps,” Aethyta concedes, narrowing her eyes. “Or, perhaps not…”

Liara looks up, at that. She takes in the sly look on Aethyta’s face, and frowns. It’s with more than a little apprehension that she asks, “You have a suggestion…?”

The look that overtakes Aethyta’s face is, in and of itself, enough to light her cheeks with a premature blush.

“’Reckon all you need, babe, is someone new to _get under_.”

 

It’s cold when Shepard steps outside; the wind bites at her nose and cheeks and leaves them reddened despite the short walk between her apartment and the awaiting skycar. She slips into a front seat, processes an address, and tries to warm herself up when the ‘car gives a brief jerk and begins moving.

Through the window, the sky is already darkening and vaguely distorted from the rain hitting the glass at an angle.

(Shepard _really_ hopes that’s not an omen.)

This is a trip that she has taken often, if not regularly. She is filled with not a new anticipation, but a nervous one, like all of her bad thoughts have pooled into her stomach and caused a blister there. They make her ache. Yet, still, a sense of hope. Determination. A promise to herself, to Liara, to whoever will hear it, that she will try to make things right, because she has to. If all that happens today (and she is fast accepting that this may likely be the case), is Liara hearing an apology and quietly closing her apartment door in Shepard’s face, then she will take it.

It’ll be more than she deserves, she thinks.

And among that throng of confused feelings – the guilt, the hope, even the fear – there’s an awful excitement in Shepard at just the thought of seeing Liara again after so long. A selfish excitement, but one she cannot ignore, even if she tries to. Her legs jump with it, her fingers fidget; a muscle beneath her eye twitches thrice before she manages to blink it away.

At the end of this encounter, should there be an encounter at all, Liara will ultimately forgive her or not, will give her a second chance or will speak to her only as an obligated Professor for as long as Shepard has to share her classroom, and the ultimatum makes her sick. A part of the reason for hiding for so long, she realises, was to avoid the concrete refusal of any further contact with Liara.

That it might happen anyway? Well. Shepard has to accept, at some point, that she can’t fix every threadbare inch of the galaxy herself.

 

The skycar comes to a lurching stop outside of Liara’s apartment block, and Shepard sits a while as the meter flashes the necessary fare.

The building looks as sleek as always. The sun glints off one curved side and reflects back onto the water-logged grass. Shepard cranes her neck to better see its antennae-roof, a sight that always made her smirk a little, but now hooks at her stomach with fresh nerves. She wonders if Liara is even up there at all – whether she’s alone, or expecting her, or would much prefer not to see her again. She wonders if this isn’t a mistake.

She wonders, if not now, will she ever be able to face Liara again?

The skycar makes a noise of acknowledgement as she scans her omni-tool over the console, paying her fare. The doors release automatically, sending in a brilliant cold, and Shepard tucks her body tighter into her jacket before exiting. The sidewalk feels too solid beneath her feet, and she gives a haphazard wobble before finding her balance; looking up at the greyscale sky, she thinks she might feel the world’s rotation beneath her feet.

The trees bare empty branches, now. Shepard walks the path to the door, side-stepping bunches of damp blue and grey leaves, until she meets the contacts grid in the exterior wall. She finds Liara’s apartment number, brings a finger to its surface, and has to count to three, hold her breath, almost even closes her eyes, before her body can apply an ounce of pressure.

The button lights up beneath the pad of her finger, and Shepard’s stomach drops.

She drops her hand instantly away, knows that it will ring out but will not allow her to communicate via the speaker and mic, and waits.

 

“E-excuse me?” Liara croaks, and Aethyta’s smirk widens all the more for it. She swallows thickly, shifts her twined hands from the table and into her lap, and blushes at the implication that she is _sure_ Aethyta will elaborate on, should she not stop her quickly enough. “I—no, I… don’t think that will help at all.”

“No? Because it’s worked well enough fo—”

“ _Thank you_ , Aethyta,” she closes her eyes, rubbing the bridge of her nose, “but I’m quite sure.”

Aethyta makes a noise of acknowledgement. Liara doesn’t know her well enough to detect any inflections of offence or humour. She lowers her hand again and sighs like she will just have to accept this, for however long it lasts, when her intercom gives a sudden and very fleeting buzz.

The noise is quick enough that she might have convinced herself that she never actually heard it, had Aethyta not reacted, too. The Matriarch does not quite straighten in her seat, but twists half of her body around to see the door, as though it’ll offer any indication of Liara’s caller.

“Expecting someone?” she asks, and Liara’s surprised frown fixes on her face.

There is an undeniable twist in her stomach, even as Liara tries to evade her own conclusion, but _who else would be calling on her?_

“No,” she says, rising from her seat. “I’m not.”

She makes her way to the intercom slowly, trance-like, and stops before the command centre. There is no second buzz, no other indication that her apartment number wasn’t pressed quickly and by accident. She has, honestly, no idea who is downstairs, if anyone is downstairs at all.

Still, and with more instinct than thought, she presses a finger to a button and allows them entry.

“Are you sure you wanna do that?” Aethyta asks from somewhere behind her, her tone indicating that she knows exactly where Liara’s thoughts are lingering. Liara turns to her slowly, her face clear of any distinguishable expression, and Aethyta straightens in her seat as though taking that as answer in itself. “Alright. Be careful.”

Liara wants to deny it – say that she doesn’t know what she means. Instead, a short nod, and she turns expectantly back to the door.

Aethyta shifts uncomfortably in her chair. Liara does not ask her to leave, and so she doesn’t – is sure she’d be reluctant to, even if Liara plead. Still, if what she thinks is going to go down, goes down (and Aethyta has become particularly adept at predicting a shit storm), it won’t be for her to see.

( _Just you try and stop me_ , she thinks.

Whether this turns into a screaming match, or a heartfelt reunion, Aethyta knows one thing for sure: she’s sure as fuck going to have something bad to say about it, and so for the sake of all of them, she clenches her gut and hopes to the Goddess’ perky tits that Liara’s little human doesn’t appear on the other side of that door.

As often is the case, Aethyta is not lucky enough to be spared from her own uncanny prediction.)

The apartment door buzzes once to let Liara know that the pressure pad on the opposite side has been activated. It is enough to confirm every suspicion, and the rush feeds her quick heart even as it drags at her stomach. Shepard is here, outside of her apartment, just a few paces ahead of her. She almost brings one hand to the door, as though she could feel her presence through the metal, and then quickly clenches it where it hangs by her side.

She takes a deep breath.

Bringing that hand up, she presses her unclenched fingers to the pressure pad and watches as the holographic interface flickers out. The metal doors part with an engineered whisper, like a sigh in Liara’s ear that she didn’t know just how badly she needed to hear, and all of the air in her lungs leaves her on one great breath at the sight of her sorry visitor.

 

Shepard’s brought flowers.

She holds the bouquet beneath her nose – blue ones, because she’d seen them and thought of Liara – and thinks, she should have brought them sooner. Thinks, she should have filled Liara’s apartment up with them, her office, too; a flower for every potted plant poking out from between the clutter. She thinks, she should have made Liara feel so loved while she still could, because _she is_.

Her gut twists, her fingers tighten around the stems, crinkling the paper. Liara stands before her just as she remembers her, but the look on her face is not familiar. It stops Shepard’s words in her throat. She must be gaping, she thinks, teetering from foot to foot, mouth open, but Liara’s expression does not falter.

(She is a welcome sight, even if it makes her stomach clench.)

“Liara—”

Her voice sticks around the word; she nearly coughs and has to start again.

“I— Can I come inside?”

Liara looks at her as though she hasn’t said a word. Shepard feels those cool, blue eyes against her face like a particularly cold wind. She sniffs too loudly, and Liara’s eyes dart back up to hers. The words register, then, with a flicker of shock and doubt, and she suddenly looks so unsure. She gives one solemn shake of her head.

“No.”

“Oh,” Shepard says, nodding. “Okay.” She drops her head, gaze fixing on the bouquet; after a brief hesitation, she lifts her gaze again and presents the flowers to Liara with a wordless shrug. “I—I brought you these. I didn’t know which kind you like, but I think they smell okay.”

Indecision flickers across Liara’s expression. She raises her hands as though to take the bouquet, and then just twists her fingers together, instead. She lowers her head, avoiding Shepard’s gaze, and the bouquet slowly deflates in Shepard’s hold. She tucks the flowers into her chest, and Liara asks the floor, “Why did you come here?”

And, before Shepard can answer: “I told you I didn’t want to see you.”

“I know,” Shepard rushes to get out, taking a quick step forward as though she expects the door to Liara’s apartment to close at any second. “I just, I had to see you, I to try to—”

“Jane.”

“Please, Liara—”

There’s a noise from inside that Shepard recognises as one of Liara’s dining room chairs being pushed away from the table. The sudden draw of it clogs her throat like cotton, and her mouth snaps shut. Her wide eyes flit between the open doorway, to the table that is just out of her line of sight, and then back to Liara. Shepard doesn’t think she has the balls to fill the pause that follows; her stomach sinks with every hidden, heavy footstep that sounds from inside the apartment, growing steadily nearer.

“You have someone over.”

Liara has no need to feel guilty for it. Even if it wasn’t Aethyta – even if she had gone so far as to take Aethyta’s advice – there is no reason for the guilt, and yet it twists into her expression, anyway. Shepard almost flinches from the sight of it. A part of Liara is sorry for that (a part of her, however small, burns with satisfaction).

“Yes.”

Shepard’s cringing gaze hovers over Liara’s shoulder. It might hurt less if she just walked away, she thinks, but something keeps her feet rooted in place. Knowing that Liara is who she is, or perhaps in way of punishment, but she makes herself watch. She holds her breath until her lungs burn, until the footsteps stop and a figure appears and a moment of recognition – _Aethyta, thank fuck_ – and she lets it back out again in a shuddering sigh.

Aethyta comes to a stop in the doorway, leaning against the jam and folding her arms across her chest. The move nudges Liara ever so slightly to one side, and she almost loses her balance. Her fingers twist apart, one hand steadying herself again the open door. Shepard suddenly isn’t sure where to look.

“Liara.” Her eyes dart between them, to Aethyta’s disapproving scowl, and then back again. “Please. Can we just talk?”

Liara opens her mouth to answer, but it is Aethyta’s voice that comes out, scratchy with age and dissatisfaction.

“She told you no,” she says, and does not let Shepard get a word in to argue otherwise. “As I remember it, she said she never wanted to see you or your lily white ass here again.”

“ _Aethyta_.”

“So what are you doing here?”

Aethyta’s stare is hard and unforgiving. Shepard doesn’t think it makes her _so much_ of a coward that she shies away from it – turns, instead, to Liara, as though she expects help there. When Liara’s wide eyes only flit across to her neighbour, when the uncertainty turns to curiosity as her gaze finds Shepard, again, well. She supposes she shouldn’t be so surprised.

Her fingers tighten around the flower stems again, crinkling the paper. She lowers them right down to her side with a sigh, and prepares to start. She’s had words in her head for days – phrases and pleas and so many apologies – and now? She feels the slow petrification of fear climbing up her legs. Her cheeks flush with the awful familiarity of it. She remembers, vividly, the way that she had stood in her kitchen and let Liara walk away without even trying to explain.

(Not this time, she thinks. Never again. Never, never, never.)

“Because,” she throws out, almost shouts it, if just to get herself started. “Because I had to see you – to _fix this_. I couldn’t not try.”

Aethyta gives an indignant scoff, but Shepard only has eyes for Liara. That awful look on her face softens – Shepard wants to say that there’s longing there, the suffocating kind that squeezes at your gut and makes you want to scream injustice, but she can’t be sure from this distance. She takes a step forward, tentative and so slowly, and asks, “Liara?”

Liara’s face softens and Shepard thinks she can do it – takes another step forward and thinks she will fix this, because they can be fixed. They will be. And then a small frown appears between Liara’s eyes, grows slowly but steadily deeper, and Shepard stops in her tracks with the weight of her terror.

“No,” Liara whispers, and Shepard’s heart sinks. By the time Liara has found her voice again, she cannot look at the woman on her doorstep. She tilts her gaze down to the flowers in Shepard’s hand, and then turns away. That one hand in the doorway keeps her in place for a moment longer, and then slowly releases, each long finger curling into a fist. “I said I don’t want to see you, Jane. I meant it.”

Shepard watches her go, and suddenly she realises that she was expecting this to go in an entirely different direction. The optimist in her had not planned for this course of action, and her brain freezes with the sheer impossibility of it having happened – of her having been denied even the _option_ to prove that her best efforts are good enough. She stares at Liara’s delayed retreat and thinks, this was never meant to happen.

This _is not happening_.

(Not again. _Never, never, never_.)

“Wait!”

She nearly drops the flowers in her rush. Her fingers outstretch – are so close to slipping around Liara’s that she already feels the ghost of their warmth in her palm – and then a noise. Something almost metallic, or like a vacuum in the air, and Liara’s fingers are suddenly out of reach. Shepard has time enough to frown – to question – before the invisible force against her chest is a solid force against the back of her head, and Liara’s apartment door disappears in a swarm of black.

 

When she opens her eyes again, there is a blue figure before her and noise thick in her ears.

She tries to shake her head, but her neck feels too weak to hold it. She turns it from side to side, instead, and feels fingers press against a tender spot beneath her hair. The pain jolts her back into recognition; she squints up at Liara in confusion, more than anything, and wants to ask what happened when she meets Liara’s gaze, and her thoughts quickly quiet at what she finds there.

That look of longing – the twisting kind that grips at her stomach, even now – that she had assumed imagined, assumed she'd hoped into existence, but definitely had not, stares back at her like a shining beacon in Liara's dark pupils.

She lifts a heavy hand up, forgets why she is on the floor and touches her fingertips to Liara’s face. She’s as soft as Shepard remembers, and it shouldn’t be a surprise, yet it still sparks tears in the corners of her eyes. There’s a shifting behind her, the gentle extracting of one hand as Liara moves to do the same.

Except, she doesn’t.

She holds her shaking hand between them and frowns. There’s moisture there – so dark it could be black, but, no. She twists her hand into the light and red—it’s definitely red.

Liara stares at it for three uncomprehending seconds, and gasps.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very quick update. 
> 
> Thank you again for all of your kudos and comments! You blow me away. <3

When Shepard tries to stand, the entire planet lurches queasily beneath her feet.

She falls heavily into Liara’s side and says, “it’s fine,” even though she cannot quite see straight, her legs aren’t stable beneath her, and her entire head throbs painfully with her every heartbeat. Liara catches her on one hip, both arms around her, and Shepard takes a grateful hold of one shoulder to keep from slipping back down to the floor.

“It is _not_ fine,” Liara hisses somewhere close to Shepard’s face. “You’re _bleeding_.” 

“She grabbed for you,” Aethyta unhelpfully supplies, arms crossed and expression still petulant from when Liara had dismissed her help with getting Shepard off the floor. She rolls her shoulders and huffs, watching the pair of them struggle, as is all she is permitted to do. Liara sends her another withering glare once they’ve stumbled over the threshold of her apartment, and Aethyta just about keeps from spitting.

“She would never hurt me.”

“Ha!”

Liara respectfully ignores her outburst. She deposits Shepard’s body in the chair Aethyta had been previously sitting in, and bends before her with one hand on her shoulder and the other on the table top. When she leans in close, Shepard’s hazy gaze travels between both of her eyes, and Liara releases a short sigh. She is cognisant, at least.

“Had worse scrapes than this,” Shepard says, her voice tight with pain, but no longer slurred. She tips her head back to see Aethyta, still cross-armed in the doorway, and frowns as though it’s a minor inconvenience she’s just suffered, and not a biotic charge straight to the chest. “You know this means I’ve gotta kick your ass now, right?”

“Don’t you dare,” Liara sighs.

“Pff, you can try it, sweetheart. I’ll warp you black and blue.”

“ _Enough_ , both of you.” Liara sends the pair of them a sobering look as she straightens up, hands coming to her hips, and Shepard just about keeps from slipping a foot further down into her chair. “This never should have happened. Aethyta, I stalled you this morning on your way out. You clearly have somewhere to be. I’d like you to apologise and leave.

“And you,” her eyes landing on Shepard, now, who at least has enough sense to meet her gaze, “you’re going straight to the hospital. I’ll drive you.” She takes quick stock of her robe and lounge-wear, pats her chest as though she’d forgotten that she wasn’t yet dressed, and sighs. “I’ll throw on a jacket, and we’ll go to the—”

“Liara,” Shepard neatly cuts in. “I’m really okay.”

Liara has little more than a quick, even dismissive disagreement for her. She moves around the other side of the table, takes both her own and Aethyta’s cold tea to the kitchen sink, and then heads straight on to her bedroom. She returns again with a large jacket and begins untying her robe. From the doorway, still, Aethyta purses her lips.

“She’ll be fine,” she grunts, jutting her chin towards Shepard. “I went easy on her.”

“You cut open her head!”

From her place at the table, Shepard slowly unzips her jacket and eases both arms out. She touches one hand to the back of her head, winces when her fingers meet that tender spot in her scalp, and pushes herself to her feet. The movement draws Liara’s attention, and she drops both ends of her coat where she had been preparing to fasten them. She’s at Shepard’s side within seconds, but Shepard eases past her and into the kitchen.

“Jane…”

“Do you have painkillers?”

Aethyta makes a squelching, sucking noise with her mouth, frowning at the pair of them from her post by the door. “Probably knocked some sense into her,” she mutters, catching Liara’s gaze, and then steps backwards out of the doorway. The metallic panels hiss closed a moment later; Liara has a feeling that that apology will be just as scarce, should Shepard go looking for it.

Alone in the kitchen, Shepard slips the little packet of pills out of Liara’s hand and studies her face. They’re standing so close that she could probably count each individual speck in the dusting of freckles across her nose, had she the time. They’re prominent enough, even against the furious flush on Liara’s cheeks.

She looks angry and vaguely breathless. Shepard doubts she’s ever seen anything more beautiful.

Still, her head pounds, and she swallows two pills dry without actually checking the label.

“She’s probably right,” she tells Liara, and that captures her attention, at last. “She would warp me black and blue. I never even saw it coming.” Hard eyes stare back at her, Liara’s mouth unmoving from the thin line that she has made of it. “And, I will be fine,” Shepard quickly adds. “Think I needed that a few days ago, huh? If anyone could kick some sense into me— Are you sure your mom hasn’t just hired her as your secret bodyguard? Because, _fuck_.”

Liara holds her gaze a moment longer, and then turns away with a small sigh. “I have medi-gel, somewhere. Hold on.”

She moves away from Shepard, towards one overhead cupboard, and draws down a first aid kit. Shepard leans back against the refrigerator, and Liara moves deftly past her without stopping. She sets the first aid kit on the table, spares one fleeting glance towards Shepard, and then attempts to pick the top off the box with an exasperated sigh. She’s still wearing her jacket, and is beginning to feel the uncomfortable warmth of it against her chest.

It does not help, she thinks, that Shepard refuses to take her eyes off her.

Once she’s removed the fiddly top, Liara picks inside the ‘kit until she finds a half-full tube of medi-gel. “Come here, please,” she tells Shepard, drawing out a chair for her to sit on. “I should stop the bleeding, at least, before we go.”

Shepard hesitates before pushing herself away from the fridge. She presses that hand again to the back of her head, winces, but draws it back with only a light sponging of red in the centre of her palm. “It’s stopping on its own,” she says. “No need for you to take me anywhere.”

Liara moves both hands to the back of the chair and gives Shepard an imploring look. With a short sigh, Shepard indulges, and takes her seat as prompted. She feels a little better for being off her feet – less like she is about to empty her stomach over Liara’s clean floors. Even Liara’s fingers in her hair, tentatively parting it around the worst of the blood, feel somewhat relaxing. The short stab of pain every other few seconds reminds her what she’s doing here to begin with, but still.

This could be the last time that Liara ever touches her, and she’s in too much pain to make the most of it.

Finally, Liara releases the threads of hair that she’s been holding aloft to give her a better view of the cut. She rubs the excess medi-gel into her hands and drops them, unthinking, onto Shepard’s shoulders. “It’s healed,” she sighs; between the blood and the gel, Shepard’s hair is a frightening mix of matted and greasy. “You’ll need to shower carefully. I doubt they’ll clean you up at the hospital.”

Shepard makes a quiet noise of dissent, and tips her head backwards to see her.

“I don’t need the hospital. I’ve taken worse knocks before.”

Liara’s lips twitch and purse. “I don’t feel comfortable letting you walk away without seeing a doctor.”

Shepard’s head tilts to one side, this time, and a ghost of a smile plays at her lips. That unruly red fringe curls into her eyes, even like this; Liara has to clench her hands against Shepard’s shoulders to keep herself from reaching out to shift it. How it doesn’t bother Shepard, to always have her sight so obstructed…

“But I’ve already seen a doctor,” Shepard whispers, the words coming quiet and too indulgent, and it’s like those first days all over again; Liara’s cheeks tinge a deeper, angrier blue, and she quickly steps out of Shepard’s line of sight. Suddenly aware of the strain in her neck, Shepard rights her head again with a discomforted groan. “The pain’s going now, anyway.”

“You could be concussed.”

“Liara…”

Shepard hears the shuffling of clothing behind her, and imagines Liara shedding her coat. She releases a short sigh at that, though the relief is tinged with aching disappointment. For three whole seconds, she considers allowing Liara to drive her to a hospital, if only to prolong her company. Would Liara sit dutifully by her bedside while a doctor assessed her wound? Shepard doubts it.  Her heartbeat turns quick and uncomfortably loud in her ears; she wants to turn towards Liara, see the expression on her face, but can’t quite gather the strength to get up from the chair.

She stares straight ahead and offers a tentative, insufficient, “I’m sorry.”

“ _Don’t_.”

The depth in Liara’s voice sends a sudden rush through Shepard; she closes her eyes and shivers. There’s movement, again, and when Liara next speaks, her voice is muffled with distance. “I’ve been waiting days for you to come here and explain yourself. I’ve been imagining what you would say – I haven’t been able to think of anything else.

“I thought I wanted to hear it all. Perhaps I still do, but I know that if you give me any half-way decent explanation, I will forgive you without a _second’s_ hesitation. You could tell me anything, Jane, and I’ll still want you back.

“You _do not_ deserve it.”

The words wind themselves tight around Shepard’s throat. She sits hard and cold, rigid with a held breath, moving only with the _thud, thud, thud_ of her frightened heart. She feels a glaze like salt cover her eyes and has to lift a hand to wipe the tears away; if she cannot stop them, she at least will not shed them. Not here, and not yet.

Finally, around the knot in her throat: “I was an idiot. I didn’t mean it… fuck, I was so lucky to have you.”

“Yes, you were.”

“Li, please—”

The chair legs screech against the floor in her haste to stand; she’s too quick and sends herself dizzy – holds one hand to the table while she pivots in place, only to face Liara’s back. She is breathing heavily, her chest all but heaving with the effort, and if her legs don’t shake as though she might fall at any moment…

(Shepard has faced worse than this, she knows. Shepard has faced down thresher maws and charging krogan, and shuttle upon shuttle of gun-wielding arms, but only now does she realise just how close she’s coming to losing, if not her life, then the future that she imagined for it – the one that she wants, and still desperately grasps at, only to feel it sliding through her fingers like worn-down grains of sand.)

And for all her shaking and shuddering, and the way she shifts unsteadily on her feet, Liara’s back is still and ramrod straight. Unwavering – unmoving – unbreathing, Shepard is sure. When she does move, it is to tilt her head to one side, not quite far enough for Shepard to see more than one down-turned eye.

“Please,” she says, and her voice pulls at Shepard’s gut, pulls all the air from her lungs, “just leave, Jane.”

Shepard watches her a moment longer, waiting for something else – an answer that she wants to hear, but knows she will not get. She pulls in a deep breath and nods her head like she will be able to accept this. Her feet feel heavy, reluctant, when she turns. Gravity feels suddenly stronger; she has to stop halfway, leans with one hand against that great piano, and wills the crushing ache in her chest away.

It does not go.

She stares down at her hand, pale and clenching against the piano, and frowns at the wrongness of it all. There are things in this galaxy that Jane Shepard cannot fix, and she has accepted this, for the most part, but she is _stubborn_. She has too much hope. She moves back a step, until her fingers are on the keys, and thinks this will hurt even harder if it does not work.

She presses a key (the wrong one), and swears.

When she tries again, presses a pale key and then another, a few more, her confidence in her own memory returns. She plays the botched melody three times through, and though she hits a few wrong keys and likely misses more, the tune rings out, unmistakable. It takes her back to that night the world had shifted beneath her feet, and only Liara had been able to set it back on its axis again, with all the patience of her many years and her sweet, soft kisses.

Paces behind her, Liara clenches both hands into fists.

She does not tell her to stop, but Shepard doesn’t remember enough of the tune to continue for much longer. She lets her hand fall away and turns with a trembling stomach to where Liara still has not moved, but for the shake in her shoulders. Shepard chances a few steps closer, until she is near enough to hear Liara’s shuddery breath past the beating of her own heart in her ears.

“I love you.”

A pause, and Shepard creeps ever closer, until the sound of Liara’s voice halts all movement.

“If you didn’t mean it,” she says, soft like she doesn’t want to care, quiet like she is already regretting her inability to let it go, “why did you say it?” She angles her head to one side, again, shows Shepard that one, downturned eye, and asks in a croaking, resistant voice, “Why did you say it, Jane? Why were you pushing me away? What were you afraid of?”

Shepard is silent – stumped.

Everything, she thinks. _Everything, everything_. It certainly feels like it, now, her heartbeat racing away from her, her fingernails leaving imprints in her palms, her legs shaking at the knee. _Flight, flight, flight_ , her instincts tell her. _Get the fuck out_. She grits her teeth. She pushes it down. She can do this, she will – she is _good_ at this.

She waits too long.

Liara’s face falls as though she has already accepted that she is not getting an answer. Tears well up, and it chokes Shepard to see her wipe them aside, to feel them filling her own eyes in response. Her throat closes around them, her windpipe burning beneath the crushing weight of the sob that she is trying to hold in; her body does everything it can to preserve itself, to silence her. _Get out and get safe_. It is only when Liara steps away, dismissing Shepard and any chance that they might have at recovery, that she finds the strength to _fight_.

“I _was_ afraid,” she blurts out, and Liara hesitates but does not face her. “I was afraid you’d get inside my head and see what I’ve done – that you’d see who I am.”

It sounds insufficient against the weight of the damage she has caused, and Shepard cringes, briefly closes her eyes. She runs a hand through her hair. She is not mindful of her wound, but barely winces when a knot catches against her fingers and tugs at the tender spot of her scalp.

When she lowers her hand, it is to see dried crimson crusting in the creases of her palm.

“There is so much blood on my hands, Liara, and not all of it belongs to bad people. If you knew the things I’d done, you wouldn’t want to touch me. You’d never want to see me again.”

Slowly, Liara completes her rotation. She is slow to lift her eyes to Shepard’s, and they are no less filled with tears than before. She sniffs delicately and raises her chin – proud, defensive, _angry_ – meeting Shepard’s gaze with all the force of a charging krogan. Shepard is waiflike before it, thin as paper, utterly exposed.

“I know what you’ve done,” Liara tells her, and Shepard shakes her head.

“You have no idea,” she promises. “You have no idea. You would never forgive me if you did.” She presses the back of her hand to her eyes, and quickly lowers it again. “But that doesn’t mean what I did was okay, I know. I fucked up. I was – I still _am_ so scared that you’re going to see all of that and want nothing more to do with me, but this scares me more.”

She takes a step forward and Liara holds her ground.

“Liara, this has been hell. Not being with you – not seeing you, not even speaking to you – it’s _hell_. I can’t… I want to make it right. If that means walking away now, I’ll do it. I’ll never bother you again. But if I can – if you let me, I will make this up to you. I will never put you through this again.”

She takes another tentative step, and Liara releases a shuddering breath, so close to her now that Shepard can almost feel it.

“If you still want me after we meld, Liara, I’m yours.”

Liara holds her gaze for a long time. She thinks, she should not have let her talk – should not have listened quite as intently as she did, or at all. She thinks, it would be so easy to forget the humiliation that burns in her chest, even now. She could let it go, she could forget all about it. A barely-there frown pulls at her brow.

“Just like that?” she asks. “I thought you were afraid.”

“I am,” Shepard is quick to say, her lips struggling against that same self-deprecating smile. “I’m fucking terrified, but I don’t want to hide from you anymore. I don’t want to be away from you like this ever again. If melding with you is the only way to prove that I mean that, and… if you still want that, if you’re prepared to see the shit that’s in my head – and it’s not easy to see, Liara, it’s not stuff I _want_ you to see, but I’ll show it to you, if that’s what you need.”

When Shepard feels something warm at her hands, she has to look down to confirm that it is Liara, fingers like slender fugitives slipping between her own. Liara looks just as surprised with herself as Shepard feels, but she does not pull away. Shepard waits three breathless seconds before responding, before pressing her thumbs to the backs of Liara’s hands and strengthening the hold.

“I don’t want to meld with you, Jane.”

Shepard’s gaze makes a quick break for Liara’s face.

“Oh,” she says, and thinks she will choke on her own voice. She tries to nod her head, but her neck is too stiff. “Okay.”

Liara’s hands squeeze tighter around Jane's; she turns her gaze down to them, to where their fingers intertwine – to where she can almost see the tension in Shepard’s hands, and knows that they would be shaking if she wasn’t holding onto them quite as tightly as she is.

“I need time,” she tells them, and Shepard’s eyes are wide and uncertain when she lifts her head to see her face. “Let me think.”

It’s not quite what Shepard was expecting. It is, all things considered, more than she could have hoped for.

“Okay,” she repeats, and Liara presses her hands ever tighter before letting them go.

When she sees Shepard to the door, they both stop before the discarded bouquet of blue flowers, left crinkled and abandoned in the hallway. There is a new red mark against the wall that turns Liara’s stomach when she sees it, and so she does not look for long. She steps out of her doorway, retrieves the bouquet, and picks at the flowers until they look almost recovered from Aethyta’s biotic charge.

She takes the flowers with her when she returns inside, bids Shepard farewell with one tentatively raised hand, and does not say goodbye.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone got an OC and want a drabble? Check out my OC Kissing Week fic and please prompt me, I’m bored as hell. :) 
> 
> (Also, look at that word count! What the heck is that number? How did I get here? Nobody knows.)

Shepard gives her time.

When she returns back to the apartment that same day, bloodied and subdued, Jack catches her before she can get past the kitchen. Dark eyes take in the almost comical blood prints on her clothes, and finally settle on her face, expression incredulous. With nothing more than an exasperated sigh, Jack pulls the refrigerator door back open, and reaches inside for a second bottle of beer to match the one already in her hand.

“So, that went well.”

Shepard takes the bottle but does not open it right away. “Yeah,” she picks at the label, resting her weight against the kitchen counters, “I think it actually did.”

She does not call Liara that night, though she barely sleeps for thought of her. She lies on one side, cautious of the healed but still tender spot in her scalp, and counts the hours down on her bedside alarm clock until she loses track somewhere before dawn. She spends Sunday as she believes it is meant to be spent: in bed until early noon, and in pyjamas for the rest of the day, doing little but catching up on work.

(Liara doesn’t call or contact her. Shepard holds an agitated, if hopeful radio silence.)

 

Shepard wakes the next morning with a headache.

Her bedside clock reads an hour before her scheduled alarm. Shepard considers at least attempting to fall back into sleep, but the temperature has dropped overnight and she’s uncomfortably cold already. She balls her limbs up into her body and wishes that the apartment wasn’t so quiet. Jack had made an unhurried escape the night before; the size of the bag on her back had said she’d be gone at least until tomorrow.

Shepard’s got to be the only person in the entire building that misses the sheer nerve of her morning playlists.

After ten cold minutes have passed, Shepard snakes an arm out from the relative warmth of her blankets and turns her alarm clock off. She shivers out from beneath the covers with more frustration than courage, and reaches in the dark for a crutch. She goes for the en suite, first – turns on the shower and lets the hot water steam up the bathroom for when she’s ready to shed her pyjamas.

Next is the kitchen, where she blinks against each new bleary lamp that she turns on, and picks around inside of a cupboard for pain killers. She does not have to look for long. Two little white pills and a sip straight from the milk carton later, and Shepard moves unhurriedly for the shower. She leaves out clean clothes, props the crutch up against the side of the bath, and carefully lowers herself into her chair.

And even here, hours premature, her heart thumps at the thought of seeing Liara later in the day.

She cleans the shampoo from her hair, tilts her head right back into the spray of hot water, and sighs as the pounding in her head finally recedes.

 

Shepard takes the bus early.

She gets off at the campus stop just as two krogan, grumbling and laughing, either hungover or still drunk, step on. Shepard watches them board as she fastens up her coat; the bus gives an unsteady lurch as the pair teeter towards the back, take seats directly opposite each other, and sets off again with the metallic hiss of its closing doors.

Campus is quiet, this early, and Shepard decides to make the most of it. She shoves both hands deep into her coat pockets, tucks her mouth behind the zipped-up collar, and squints against the wind until she’s walked far enough for the surrounding buildings to shield her from the worst of it. Her walk takes her through the dormitories, where the majority of the curtains are still closed, and those open reflect the bright lights inside.

The land overlooking the dorms looks different than it had in autumn – than it had, even, when she’d come to view the campus at the beginning of summer. The grass is sickly pale beneath a layer of frost, and crunches beneath her boots when Shepard strays from the designated path. She’s caught in a wind tunnel, briefly, and has to hunch her back against it as she passes between two closely situated buildings, until she finally remerges into a small quad.

That tender spot beneath her hair gives an answering throb to the cold air, and Shepard quickly realigns her hat. She pauses when she gets to a deactivated fountain, and peers inside at her own willowy complexion. Against the surface of the water, her body ripples with the breeze, ineffectually trying to escape her sight.

There’s something about the moment – the way the cold numbs her cheeks; how the sunlight doesn’t quiet filter through the overcast sky – that makes her think that the shivering, willowy image of herself could leap right out of the water, had she the strength.

Shepard shakes her head. She closes her eyes, and then turns away from her reflection. She finds the nearest entrance to the main university building – a closed but unlocked door that leads into the university’s cafeteria – and grounds herself in the moment. She is not some unreal, wisp of a woman, and if Liara tells her that she wants nothing more to do with her after today, she will not fade like sunlight hitting a shadow - no matter how true the sentiment feels.

 

She takes her coffee early.

Thinks she needs it, too, when the heat coming from the take-out cup brings back the feeling in her fingers, and Shepard starts to feel like a real person again. The warmth of it settles in her stomach, laced with an extra sachet of sugar, but Shepard can let that slide, this morning. Once she’s finished, she empties the syrupy dregs of it into an appropriate bin and recycles her cup.

(She _can_ do her little bit to save the planet, even if she is no longer taking down slavers or crime lords or overgrown earth worms.)

She makes it to the History corridor early, but that’s no surprise, and for the next ten minutes it is just her and the sleeping turian in the corner. She leans against one wall, hands in the looping straps of her backpack, and focuses on the window into her unlit seminar room. She can see Liara’s desk clearly enough, and the front row where she sits. Beyond that, the room looks untouched, and Shepard suddenly feels as though she’s missed more than one week of her classes.

A nagging thought leads her to question just how much work she’ll have to catch up on, and she returns to her waiting with a long sigh.

As she’s checking her omni-tool for the time – five minutes before her class begins, and more people are arriving, now – Shepard wonders if she feels nervous. She supposes she should, after the last time that she saw Liara, her neighbour had nearly put her through a wall, and yet… She has, at least, the next two hours where she can still pretend that everything is going to be okay.

If there’s no indication, after today, that Liara still wants to see her, _then_ she’ll start worrying…

Still, Liara is usually earlier than this, and Shepard fights the urge to check the time again for all of ten seconds before giving in. As if on que, the time on her omni-tool ticks over a standard galactic minute, and clipped heels begin their ricocheting ascent up the corridor. Shepard feels her heart in her throat.

She lowers her omni-tooled wrist and attempts not to look too quickly – attempts to take note from the turian in the corner, who just now begins unravelling herself from the cocoon she has made of her hoodie – but each footstep sends her heart rocketing a beat faster, and Shepard can’t stand to think of Liara walking towards her and not confirm it.

And while she wonders just what she was expecting – a supply professor and an abominable excuse, perhaps – her eyes land on Liara’s determined figure and do not leave her, even as she passes close enough to surround Shepard with a swathe of perfumed air. Shepard breathes it in like she has gone without the scent for years, and tries not to sigh it back out again like some love-sick teenager lusting after her professor.

(All things considered, Shepard doubts she has much room to deny the comparison.)

She takes her seat and unpacks too quickly, her fingers fumbling and fidgeting, and eventually threading together on top of the table as she watches Liara do the same. She takes out each datapad at a deliberately slow pace, and places them in meticulous order across her desk. Shepard would laugh at it, having seen the typical state that Liara’s work space gets into, but she doubts she has it in her.

By the time Liara has finished unpacking, a silence befalls the room and Shepard suddenly understands why she had taken so long. Without time to even set her eyes upon Shepard, no less engage in any kind of conversation, Liara begins her lesson right on time, and the seminar room falls into a comfortable hush.

Comfortable, that is, but for Shepard, who shifts in her chair until it releases an unfortunate squeak, crosses and uncrosses her arms every few minutes, and even contemplates removing her numerous layers right down to the tank top that she has on above her bra, if just to provoke a reaction, and yet not once in those two hours does Liara glance her way.

Shepard’s stomach sinks with the implication, and she resigns herself to her fate as quietly as she can while her heart beats like a drum on the inside of her ribcage. She lowers her head and takes her notes with a furious speed that makes her wonder, once she’s finished, if she’ll ever be able to read her own writing back again.

It is, all things considered, miserably low on her list of current worries.

 

“You’re writing your essay early, Jane?”

Shepard almost doesn’t hear her – almost replies, unthinking, before she realises who it is that’s speaking to her, and her writing hand stops. Her gaze snaps up, and Liara stands above her, clutching at a datapad, and smiling in a way that does not meet her eyes. Shepard is hopeful, either way.

She sits a little straighter in her chair – glances down at her scribbled notes, and makes an uncertain noise. “I’m not that prepared,” she says, turning back to Liara with the barest hint of a smirk. “Pretty sure I’ll need an expert to translate this back to me, anyway. You wouldn’t happen to be any good at that, would you?”

Liara blinks slowly. “I’m afraid that’s not in my area of expertise.”

Shepard nods her head. She stretches in her seat and looks up just in time to see her class filtering out through the doors without her. Not a single one of her fellow students spares a second glance to her, as though it’s no surprise (and why should it be?), that she has not yet even began to clear away her work.

“Then, I guess I’m out of luck,” she sighs, and reaches down for her backpack.

She feels Liara’s gaze on her intermittently as she packs away her things – almost catches her staring as she ruffles her backpack in order to fit her notepad back inside, but Liara’s gaze shies instantly away, almost skittish. And Shepard would feel faint for it – would feel nauseous, at the least – but for the faintest hint of deeper, darker blue across Liara’s cheeks.

It is far too reminiscent of those first few weeks, and Shepard feels lightheaded with hope.

Once her work has been returned to her bag, Shepard stands with both straps around her shoulders and her coat un-zipped. The AC in the seminar room has been adjusted to keep the temperature up, and when Shepard stands beneath it, she worries that she shouldn’t have just kept her jacket off.

She steps around to Liara’s desk – leans a hip against it, as she would – and watches as Liara slides her final datapad into her handbag.

Liara’s gaze seems to linger on her own hands for a long moment after. She closes her bag and attempts to pull the straps up onto her shoulders, before changing her mind. With a deciding breath, she turns towards Shepard and has to wait a few seconds before her gaze can follow.

She wets her lips, and almost nervously says, “Perhaps you’re not.”

Shepard almost has to ask her what she means, before remembering her throw-away comment regarding her luck, and the blood rushes to her chest. She stands perfectly still and stares, a little wide-eyed and very uncertain, as Liara finally shoulders her bag and takes a step towards her. They are still at an appropriate distance, should anyone peer in through the window that overlooks the seminar room, and yet Shepard’s body feels as warm as if she had Liara pressed directly against her – skin to skin.

“Perhaps?” she asks, and damn it if her voice doesn’t break partway through the word. For her part, Liara only nods her head. “Liara, if—are you sure?”

“Honestly, Jane, I don’t feel very sure about a lot of things right now,” Liara admits, lowering her gaze. She takes a deep breath before looking Shepard in the eyes, again. “I was sure of what we had, until I wasn’t. I was sure of where we’d get to…” Shepard’s expression cracks with guilt, and Liara must suddenly remember where she is. She takes a quick glance at the window, wets her lips, and steps around Shepard. “We shouldn’t talk about this here,” she says, clutching at her bag straps.

“Then, where?” Shepard asks before she can trigger the sensor for the automatic door, and Liara stops in place, considering her options. “At your office?”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Tomorrow – the end of the week? You can come back to mine—”

“I—no.” She shakes her head again, bites at her bottom lip, and frowns until she can say, “Today. I’d like to speak with you today.”

Shepard releases a breath. “Okay. Alright, yeah. Where?”

Liara takes a moment to answer, though Shepard has a feeling that she’s already made up her mind. She takes a step backwards towards the door, too far away to yet trigger the sensor, and studies the hopeful expression on Shepard’s face. “I’ll come to your apartment. We can talk there.”

She does not let Shepard debate, even if Shepard felt the need to. She rotates until she is facing the door, sets off the sensor, and continues on through the quickly opening panels without a second glance backwards.

Shepard watches her go, feeling for the first time in a long time like she’s doing something very right with her life.

 

Liara does not specify a time. Only hours later, alone in her apartment, does Shepard realise that she probably should have asked for one.

Still, Liara has said that she’ll come, and Shepard has no reason to doubt her.

Right?

She keeps her optimism for another hour and a half, and when it reaches the typical time that she would prepare dinner for herself, Shepard stalls more out of anxiety than hope. She picks at a cool bag of raw snap peas and listens to a weather report with the TV turned on low. The forecaster highlights which areas of the country will be hit by a mild storm, and where to look out for flooding. Shepard takes a note of that, at least.

By the time her omni-tool chimes with a message twenty minutes later, Shepard is halfway through the bag and partially invested in the vid that has come on screen. She answers her message while she’s still chewing, and only when she sees Liara’s name in her inbox does she sit up a little straighter on the couch.

{ _I’m outside._ }, the message reads, and her omni-tool buzzes again before Shepard can type out a reply. { _Let me in?_ }

[ _Door’s open_.]

Shepard waits for her by the door. She paces for three seconds, comes to a decisive halt with her arms folded and her heart buzzing inside of her chest, and answers the door barely a moment after the second chime comes through. She’s near-breathless when the panels slide open to reveal Liara, a look of surprise on her face, as well as a small, tentative smile.

Shepard relaxes when she sees it. “Hey,” she tells her, stepping out of the way, and Liara ducks inside.

“I’m sorry if it’s too late,” she says, unlatching the first button in her jacket. She turns around in time to see the door close again, and Shepard rub at the back of her neck, smile accepting. There’s something about the movement that draws her attention, however, and with a look of concern she drops her hands from the second, fiddly button, and asks, “How are you? Did you see a doctor?”

“No,” Shepard answers quickly, shaking her head. “No need to. It’s a little tender, but I can sleep on it.”

Liara releases a short sigh. “I’ve seen very little of Aethyta, though I don’t suppose she’s apologised at all?”

“Of course not,” Shepard snorts, and Liara’s lips give an undecided wobble. “But, it’s okay. It’s not like I didn’t deserve it.”

“You really shouldn’t encourage her.”

“What are you, her mother?”

Liara lets out a laugh that surprises even herself. She quiets shortly after, captures her bottom lip between her teeth, and dips her head to watch her fingers as they thread the last of her coat buttons through the holes. Once she’s finished and her coat falls open, Shepard can’t help but linger on the low-cut sweater that certainly would not qualify for Liara’s work wardrobe.

She’s been home to change, is what Shepard gathers from it, and that small seed of hope inside her belly sprouts fresh, warm roots.

“Do you want a drink?” she asks, moving away from the door and into her kitchen.

Liara follows her through with a shake of her head, and then changes her mind. “If you have wine…?”

“Sure.”

“Half a glass,” she says, folding her coat over one arm and tucking it against her chest. “I’m driving.”

Shepard brings their drinks through to the sitting area. She passes Liara hers once she has folded her coat over the back of an armchair, and shifts her own beer bottle from hand to hand as she takes a seat at one end of the couch. She looks hopefully up at Liara, and after a brief moment of hesitation, Liara takes the cushion at the opposite end of the couch. They’re an arm’s length out of reach from one another, but Shepard considers this progress.

“So,” she says, and finds that she suddenly isn’t sure what to say – knows that she has so much to say, but isn’t sure where to begin. Liara stares at her for a moment longer, and then looks down to her hands. She finds the wine glass there like a lifeline, and takes a quick, small sip. “You know I’m so sorry—”

Liara makes a small noise to halt her. The glass is quickly lowered again, and fingers pressed to her still-wet lips. “Jane,” she says, moving both hands to her lap. When she’s sure that Shepard will let her speak, she continues, “I believe you. But it still hurts that you— said that, instead of just  _speaking_ to me.

“Wait, Jane,” when Shepard tries to interject. “Please, let me finish.”

A small sigh, and Shepard nods her head. She picks at the label of her beer bottle, and would take a mouthful (thinks she’ll need it, too), but for the intensity with which Liara holds her gaze. Instead, she makes herself content to hold it between both fumbling hands, and meets Liara’s stare head-on. In the brief pause between them, the wind howls at the windows, and Liara releases a breath almost as loud.

“You made me feel mortified, Jane, like there was something _wrong_ with who I am. I felt humiliated.” She sees Shepard’s lips parting, the quick and anxious brush of her tongue, and is at least thankful when Jane remains quiet enough for her to continue, even if she’d much rather speak up. “I know that you didn’t intend to hurt me, and looking back, what you said the other day at my apartment makes a lot of sense.

That doesn’t mean that it _didn’t_ hurt.”

“I know,” Shepard agrees, and leans down to set her beer bottle on the floor, untouched. She inches closer, getting to the middle couch cushion and stopping before she’s making any kind of direct contact with Liara. For her part, Liara only takes another, larger sip from her wine glass before placing it carefully on the coffee table. When her hands return to her lap, again, Shepard sneaks a hold on one, and Liara doesn’t pull away. “Tell me how to fix it.”

Liara’s mouth opens and then closes again. She does not have any miraculous cure, and instead says, “Talk to me. Just talk to me, Jane, when you’re afraid and you need me to help, or to back away. Don’t hide things from me like this.”

“I promise,” Shepard sighs, and Liara wets her lips.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” she begins, glancing almost cautiously at Shepard, now. “About melding, and what that might mean.”

Shepard cringes, but nods her head.

“I can’t pretend not to be a little daunted,” she admits, and Shepard gives her hand a gentle squeeze. “But – and only if you’re willing, Jane, not just for my sake – I still want that, no matter what it means, or what you share. I still want to meld with you, and I still want to make love with you.”

And when she says it, this time, Shepard does not have to worry that it’s simply a quirk of her translator. Her cheeks flare with a blush, and she nods her head, taking both of Liara’s hands in her own and linking their fingers. “Yes,” she says when she realises that Liara is still staring at her, eyes wide and uncertain, begging for answer. “Yeah, I want that, too. I trust you, implicitly.”

When Liara leans in, Shepard does not hesitate.

Liara frees one hand from their hold and presses her palm to Shepard’s cheek, keeping her close. The kiss is sweet and soft, and Liara’s lips are so full against her own that Shepard almost cries knowing just how close she came to never having this again. Liara does not let her think about it; she slips a careful hand into full, red hair, and Shepard marvels at the feeling of her breath against her mouth, at the soft press of her nose in her cheek.

Shepard’s the first to pull back, breath heavy and cheeks flushed, and licks the taste of sweet wine from her lips.

“So – now?” she asks, and Liara blinks in confusion, before her lips offer an understanding, trembling smile.

“No,” she says, and manages a short laugh. “Not yet. I thought, perhaps, it could be a more natural happening.”

“Right,” Shepard agrees, her blush deepening, and Liara presses a hand back to it. Her smile gentles, and Shepard can barely stand to look away from her. She releases a rushed sigh, finally, and moves both of her hands to Liara’s hips. She’s not difficult to lift, and Liara does not protest when Shepard moves her into her lap, but wraps both arms around her shoulders and holds her as tightly as she comfortably can.

They sit like that a moment – Shepard with her head buried in Liara’s perfumed neck, breathing her in, while Liara twists a red strand around one finger and touches her lips to the parting in Shepard’s hair. The quiet lasts until a mumbling, half-muffled voice says from against Liara’s skin, “I’m sorry.”

“I know,” Liara tells her, replacing her lips with the press of her cheek. “I forgive you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, who’s up for some smut next chapter…?


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here it is… the final chapter? 
> 
> There’s still so much I’d love to write for this AU (Jackanda prequel, anyone?), and I feel a little sorry to finish this knowing that I haven’t fit more into Liara and Shepard’s story. That said, there’s the epilogue to go yet, and from around Chapter 4 onwards I began putting together a document filled with segments that I decided to take out, as well as lots of notes (silly stuff, really). I’m going to fix it up and make it a little more coherent, and then I’m going to add a link to it at the end of the epilogue. For anyone interested in getting a peek into my writing process (plus a little non-canon Shiara), a fair chunk of it will be in this document. :) 
> 
> I feel like this last chapter has completely crept up on me – I’m far too surprised that I got here, ha. That said, thank you ALL for sticking with me and encouraging me throughout this fic. I really doubt I’d have completed it if not for all of the amazing people that left kudos and comments and bookmarks, and kept me excited about writing. You guys make a huge difference, and I really, sincerely hope you’ve enjoyed reading this as much as I’ve enjoyed writing it.

Saturday, and Shepard sleeps in.

Her collective half-lifetime of poor nights of sleep is apparently, and finally, catching up with her. She wakes at noon, showers, and redresses into a clean pair of pyjamas. Jack is out and the apartment is quiet, but Shepard’s becoming used to that, now, the way that Jack slips in and around her life instead of hiding in her dark, too-loud bedroom, making the entire building know that she is _here_ and they _cannot get to her_. She’d consider it a compliment, had their strange friendship not opened up a floodgate of teasing remarks.

(And, honestly, as if Jack has any fucking right. Shepard doesn’t know where she slips off to so frequently, but she sure as shit knows why. The galaxy has a sense of humour, apparently, because Jane Shepard knows love-sick when she sees it. And she sees it, frequently, whenever she passes a reflective surface.)

She makes it as far as the kitchen, and that is where she stays, drinking coffee and picking at her breakfast while she catches up on the latest news headlines. She ends up at the sports section before long, and is interrupted halfway through an article by a buzzing against her wrist. She remembers idly that she hasn’t turned her omni-tool off vibrate, and smiles when she catches the Caller I.D.

“Hey,” she calls out upon answering. For a moment, all she can hear is the sound of a muffled voice attempting to be heard over the gale. She frowns, wincing at the bluster of noise that her omni’s speakers are producing, and leans ever so slightly closer towards the device’s mic. “Can you hear me?”

The sound of the wind cuts off almost suddenly, as though a building has been entered, or a wall to hide behind has been found, and Shepard’s lips quirk in amusement. When Liara’s voice comes over the line, this time, she’s crisp and clear, and only slightly out of breath. “Are you at home?”

Shepard casts a quick, confused glance around at her surroundings. “Yeah?”

“Oh, good. May I come inside?”

“What—now?”

“Yes, Jane. It’s very cold.”

“You’re here _now_? Outside?” Shepard asks, again, frowning and slowly dismounting her stool. An exasperated sigh carries through her omni-tool’s speakers, hurrying her along to the door; Liara does not bother to repeat her answer. Shepard presses a button until she hears the answering beep from her speaker, followed by the sound of an opening and closing door. “Uh, it’s open, come on up.”

“Thank you.”

Shepard has time enough to clear away her late breakfast and brush the toast crumbs from her pyjamas. She takes a second look down at herself and sighs a little, but there’s no time to change. When Liara arrives half a minute later, it’s with a cool breeze and a bright smile, and she does not hesitate to wrap Shepard into hug. She buries her face into Shepard’s neck, mumbles something about getting warm, and Shepard tightens her hold on her with a quiet laugh.

“’Hello,” Liara tells her, finally, voice muffled and her breath hot against Shepard’s throat. “You smell like you.”

“That is reassuring…?”

“Mm.”

When she resurfaces, it’s to smile up at Shepard, nose tinged purple from the wind. Her lips are cold, and Shepard’s are burning in comparison, and she lingers in the kiss if only to steal a little more warmth from her. They part with a soft pop, and Liara rolls her lips together with an appreciative hum.

“You’re freezing,” Shepard complains, hands going to Liara’s cheeks. “How long were you waiting outside?”

“A little while. I wanted to make sure you were in.”

Shepard drops her hands to graze the upper-most button on Liara’s coat, tugging it this way and then that before popping it through the hole. Liara’s lips quirk as her collar comes loose. “You should have just rang the bell. Is there something we need to talk about?” It’s not said unkindly, but with a hint of caution, even as her fingers pop another button loose in Liara’s coat.

Liara shakes her head.

She brings her hands to Shepard’s, gently nudging them out of the way, and then taking their place as she undoes the rest of her coat buttons. “I thought that we could just… spend a little time together? I know we’re not quite back on Thessia, and going out isn’t our best option right now, so I brought the entertainment to you.”

She peels her coat open as she says it, and hoists up her handbag for Shepard to see inside. It isn’t quite as large as the one that she uses for work, but fits snacks and a number of cased vids inside. Shepard reaches in with a grin, and turns the vids over in her hand. Once she’s finished examining their covers, she looks back to Liara, impressed.

“This one is widely acclaimed,” Liara tells her, bringing the aforementioned vid to the front of the pile. “I suggest we watch it last.”

“You… want to watch all of them? Today?”

Liara blinks and nods her head. “That is why I brought all three. Unless, you had other plans…?”

 _I’m sure I can think of something_ , Shepard muses, but quickly cuts off that line of thought. “Vids sound great.” She looks back through the selection, and brings the one with the gory-looking cover to the top of the pile. The front image shows an asari with a crudely attached machete in place of where her left arm once was, bloody bandages and all. “This one first, then,” she grins. “I’ll get us some drinks.”

 

“This is incredibly unrealistic,” Liara whispers halfway through, tucked tightly into Shepard’s side. She pulls the duvet back from her chin just enough for her words to be heard, and frowns at the screen as another wave of blood splats across the camera lens. The following few seconds play in a hazy purple filter. “She never even cauterized her wound, she’d have bled out by now. If she’s lucky, she’ll pass out from the pain before an infection gets into her blood stream and kills her.”

“I thought you weren’t that kind of doctor?”

Liara huffs when she sees the unabashed smirk on Shepard’s face. “You’re enjoying this far too much.”

Shepard only pulls her momentarily closer.

 

The second film isn’t nearly as exciting.

Shepard leaves within the first ten minutes to use the bathroom. When she returns, Liara is lying across the sofa with the duvet beneath her, her omni-tool activated. She tilts her head around the semi-translucent screen to smile at Jane as she takes her seat, lifting Liara’s legs as she does, and setting them back down again across her lap.

“Don’t give me that look,” Shepard laughs. “You picked the vids.”

“It’s going to improve,” Liara insists, deactivating her omni-tool. “I read some very good reviews.”

She turns back to the screen with a disappointed pout, while Shepard slouches in her seat, tapping a pattern against Liara’s legs. “I don’t know,” she says, turning back to the TV. “Once you’ve seen one disastrous-climb-up-a-mountain movie, you’ve seen them all. Plus, this one doesn’t have nearly as much nudity in it as the last.”

“Oh,” Liara scoffs, “that’s absolutely the reason why we’re not enjoying it.”

Shepard hums in agreement.

 

The vid does not last long, and neither does it improve, as Shepard helpfully points out while removing the disc. Before the third and final vid is put on, however, Shepard switches the channel to get the latest biotiball results.

Liara activates her omni-tool again, and only puts it down when she feels a keen gaze upon her. Lowering her wrist, she peeks over the top of the holographic screen and smirks at the look on Shepard’s face. She gives both feet a wriggle in Shepard’s lap, prompting strong hands to run from the base of her knee to her borrowed fluffy pink socks. Shepard catches a finger against the elasticated hem of one, drawing it back from Liara’s ankle and then letting it snap back into place.

“Are they winning?” Liara asks, and deactivates her omni-tool.

“They lost, miserably. The Maestros are back in fighting form.” Liara makes a half-pouting noise of disappointment, and Shepard snaps her sock again. “Are you ready for the next vid?”

“Yes, I’m ready.”

“Alright, settle down.”

Liara bites her bottom lip to keep from laughing, and the film’s opening acknowledgements begin with a thunder of classical music. Shepard takes in the opening sequence with a reluctant sigh, and sinks back against the sofa cushions, holding Liara’s legs like she might a lap dog, had she ever had one.

They get through the first five minutes before Liara begins wriggling, and, noticing that she’s paying much more attention to her than she is the film, Shepard turns to her with mock-exasperation. “Wasn’t this the one you were excited about?” she asks, smiling at the way Liara tilts her head coyly to one side.

“I was,” she agrees.

“And now…?”

Liara draws her bottom lip between her teeth and shrugs. She slips one leg free from Shepard’s hold, and pokes her socked toes against Shepard’s hip, provoking a confused frown. “Now,” she says, and slips that foot between Shepard’s backside and the couch cushion, until she can wriggle half a shin around her back, “I’ve lost interest.”

The move has her knees gaping apart, and Shepard cannot help but look, cheeks heating, to where they part. She catches Liara’s gaze quickly after, and gives a breathless nod of her head. “That’s okay,” she says, shifting ever so slightly forward to give Liara’s leg better room. “Do you want to do something else? It’s almost dinner time, so we could eat early.”

“I’m not that hungry,” Liara tells her, and Shepard tilts her body around to face her. She carries Liara’s other leg with her, holding it against her hip so that she’s comfortably nestled between them. Liara’s hands go to her stomach, fidgeting hesitantly, before she lifts one to her mouth. She captures her index finger between her teeth and then crooks one foot around Shepard’s hip, urging her closer.

“Come here,” she says. “I want to see you.”

It’s the easiest trap Shepard has ever fallen into, and so willing does she go that Liara laughs a little, her knuckles pressed to her lips to keep the noise at bay. Shepard nestles herself between her legs with impressive fluidity, keeping her weight pinned on elbows and knees, and brings them face-to-face. She smiles when Liara presses her fingertips to her jaw, tilting her face ever closer for a slow, chaste press of their mouths.

“So,” Shepard murmurs, wriggling into a more comfortable position, “what can you see, Dr. T’Soni?”

Liara’s eyes narrow fondly, and then scour Shepard’s face as though she’s actually looking for something to point out – a new freckle, perhaps, or an old, faded scar that she is just now noticing. She makes a noise, finally, as if she’s found something. Shepard grins, intrigued.

“I see that you don’t hide your thoughts as well as you’d like, _Shepard_ ,” she says, so self-indulgent that she almost blushes, and Shepard laughs before purposefully straightening her expression.

“Ah, asari mind reading,” she sighs, almost wistful. “Come on, then, what am I thinking?”

“You’re thinking that I grossly overestimated our combined attention span. One vid would have been enough.”

“Alright,” Shepard agrees, “that’s accurate so far, but I’m not the only one with an obvious tell.”

“Hm.” Liara narrows her eyes playfully. “Then what am _I_ thinking, Jane?”

“You’re thinking about me, obviously,” Shepard states, and Liara lets out a short burst of laughter, though does not deny it. She’s quieted by Shepard’s mouth upon hers, again, the kiss longer than the first and just as warming. Upon pulling back, Shepard hums and considers Liara’s mouth, as though the smile that lies there can predict her future. “You’re thinking,” she says, and presses ever so closer, until their hips align rather perfectly and Liara releases a surprised little gasp, “that we’re not gonna make it to the end of this vid, either.”

“That is—” she pauses to swallow, legs shifting around Shepard until they’re pressing her as close as she can get, “very impressive.”

“Thank you.”

She presses a kiss to Liara’s chin, and then her mouth, humming gently when the wet tip of Liara’s tongue swipes in askance against her upper lip. She welcomes a deeper kiss with a sigh, and Liara sinks both hands into thick, red hair, keeping her close. Shepard kisses her until her body grows hot and quick, until Liara’s thighs give a testing squeeze around her hips, and her body arches upwards for further contact.

Shepard eases her back down again with a hand to Liara’s hip, pressing her into the sofa and drawing back from the kiss just enough to see her. There’s a pretty flush in Liara’s cheeks, and her pupils have grown wide. When Shepard sees them, she’s overwhelmed by the urge to watch them grow wider – to see Liara’s entire eyes darker – and a quick shudder runs through her body.

Liara presses both hands to Shepard’s cheeks in response. She tilts her closer, brushes their lips together, and asks, “Is Jack expected home tonight?”

“She’s not.”

“But she could return at any minute…?”

“That’s true,” Shepard agrees. “Do you… want to—”

“Your bedroom,” Liara cuts in, and Shepard’s mouth runs dry.

With neither second thought nor hesitation, she nods her head.

 

Shepard takes the duvet back with her – shakes the crumbs off and lays it out nice while Liara folds one arm across her stomach and touches her other hand to her lips, smiling. Once Shepard has done tucking the covers into the bed frame, Liara passes her with a touch of her hand and sits on the end of the bed.

It’s as comfortable as she remembers it – solid beneath her, but so soft with the duvet that she bounces a little after originally touching down. Shepard watches her a moment, prepares to join her, and then double takes with a quick little grin. Liara follows her around the room with her gaze, as blinds are closed and bedside lighting is lit, and Shepard turns to her with raised, expectant eyebrows and a broad smile.

“Come here,” Liara laughs, and Shepard takes a seat beside her, nudging their shoulders together. Liara takes her hand and ignores, for now, the way that her heart pounds in her chest – the quick, matching throb between her legs. “You’re sure that you’re ready?” she asks, and Shepard makes a noise of agreement and kisses her shoulder. “ _Ready_ -ready?” Liara clarifies, and Shepard snorts against her sweater before lifting her head.

“Had a lot of time to think about this,” she says, squeezing Liara’s hand. “I psyched myself up days ago.”

“Jane, you shouldn’t have to—” She stops with a short sigh. “Last time, I pushed this topic until I pushed you away. Tell me to slow down. Please, tell me.”

“Li,” with another kiss to her shoulder, to the sensitive curve of her neck, “I don’t need to wait any more.”

Liara sighs as lips progress up the column of her throat, to her jaw, to just below the hollow of her ear. “Okay...” She turns her head to capture them in a fierce kiss that gentles the longer that it goes on, until Shepard is simply holding the pose, savouring the soft press of her mouth.

Liara is not nearly as patient.

The bed dips beside Shepard, but Liara does not retreat. Before she can open her eyes, Shepard has her in her lap, warm and heavy with arms wrapped around her shoulders. She laughs and then moans when Liara draws her back in, hands in her hair, until the insistent press of her tongue meets Shepard’s. She tastes like caramel and vanilla, and the over-salted chips they’d eaten in between. Shepard nips at her bottom lip in approval.

It is not long before they’re struggling for proper breath. Liara draws back first, and uses their current height difference to her advantage, pressing her forehead to Shepard’s. Unruly strands of red tickle her forehead, catching on her eyelashes, and Liara grins even as she silently curses Shepard for not cutting her hair, or else growing it out. There’s nothing tidy about it, and Liara’s raking fingers have helped the tangles along no better.

Still, Liara’s in little place to complain. She has her thighs wrapped around Shepard’s hips, and the only way that the position could be improved is if they shed their trousers. Liara almost dismisses the thought, so used to holding back is she by now, that the thought of progressing further – the _knowledge_ that they will – sends her dizzy.

She presses a quick kiss to Shepard’s lips and then draws back, far enough to work her arms out of the sleeves of her sweater. It comes off quickly, the loose collar barely touching her crest, and Shepard’s jaw drops along with her eyes, to where Liara’s bra is doing a poor job of concealing her chest.

“Oh, god…”

Liara lets her sweater hit the floor. She lowers her arms again, almost bashful until she feels Shepard’s bare palms against her back, soothing over the gentle protrusion of her ribs, up to her shoulders and then back down again. She meets Liara’s gaze as she drags her hands along to her front, thumbs dipping along the pouch of her stomach, to the ticklish skin surrounding her naval. Liara wriggles in her lap, hips undulating subconsciously forward, and Shepard smiles and stops with her hands just short of the bra’s hem.

“You’re nearly spilling out of this,” she murmurs, and Liara’s cheeks turn that deep, dark blue that almost eclipses her freckles. Finally, smiling, Shepard takes her in both hands and presses her breasts together. Liara draws in a quick breath, and Shepard marvels at how she barely fits in her palms. She squeezes a little harder, still, and finds the tight points of Liara’s nipples through the material, already hard.

“Goddess, Jane.” Liara sends her a desperate, half-frustrated look. “Take it off.”

Shepard almost thinks she’s misheard her. She lifts her gaze back to Liara’s face, surprised and slack-jawed, until Liara repeats it again, shifting in her lap, urging her to hurry. And she would – wants to, even – except this is a first time, and Shepard’s already promised herself that she’ll savour it.

She plays with Liara’s breasts for a little longer, until Liara is arching into her touch, head tipping slowly backwards on her neck, eyes closed to the ceiling. She’s beautiful – not just like this, but here it’s _pronounced_ – unavoidable, and Shepard is breathless already from just the sight of her. She moves her hands too-slowly to the clasp around Liara’s back, and struggles with the unrecognisable design. Her fingers clip and pinch, and Liara gasps as the elastic snaps against her back.

Shepard sends her a quick, tight-eyed glance. “Sorry.”

“Let me help,” Liara tells her, and reaches back to undo her bra herself.

It comes away effortlessly, the straps sagging and her breasts hanging a little looser on her chest, but still so full. She draws the material away from herself, lets it drop along with her sweater on Shepard’s bedroom floor, and fights the urge to cover herself when Shepard only stares.

“Jane,” she whispers, admonishing, and Shepard finally reaches forward to admire her with both hands.

She’s gentle, at first, with barely-there grazes of her fingers that follow the indentations of her bra. She runs both thumbs along the underside of each breast, following the mark that underwire has left behind, and then finally takes Liara in her hands again. She’s warmer without the bra, and so soft. Shepard worries for a moment that her rough palms will cause some irritation, but when they draw against Liara’s nipples, she receives a pleasant gasp in response.

Shepard kisses her, then, and traps sharp, quiet sounds against her mouth as her hands continue to tease.

She spends as long as she can there, trading heated kisses until the last vestiges of Liara’s patience wear thin. Her hands are not so much drawn back, but carelessly nudged away as Liara reaches for the hem of Shepard’s pyjama top. She casts her a quick glance first, waits for a sign of approval, and then helps Shepard out of her clothes. She does not linger, but lets Shepard work her arms out of the sleeves herself while her hands go to strong, defined abs.

Shepard almost wants to lie back for her, to let Liara examine every inch of her body the way that her long, careful fingers caress her abdomen. She lets her head fall forward, and only jolts back up again when Liara presses a thumb into her belly button. There’s a knowing smirk on Liara’s lips, and Shepard makes a mock-offended noise at the sight of it.

It does not put Liara off.

Encouraged, even, Liara rakes her blunt nails along Shepard’s stomach until she’s twitching and writhing, and trying to groan through her laughter. Her hands make a quick swipe for Liara’s, holding them in place. “Play nice,” she tells her, and Liara pecks her pouting lips in response, freeing herself.

She teases Jane a little longer – lets her fingers draw across each and every silvery-pink scar that meets her eye, running her thumb along that longer, fuller one until her breath no longer catches in her throat from just the sight of it. “It looks worse than it was,” Shepard tells her, eventually, and Liara moves on.

Shepard watches her face, the way she sucks her bottom lip past her teeth when Shepard palms at her breasts, again. It seems to remind Liara of the bra that Shepard is still wearing, and she tugs the sleeves down from her shoulders before sending Shepard an expectant look. She will learn how to undress her properly within the future, it says, and Shepard does not doubt her.

Still, she does not hesitate to reveal her chest. Her breasts are not nearly as full and round as Liara’s, but she is fond of them, either way. If Liara’s pleased little hum is anything to go by, the bra reaching the floor where the rest of their discarded clothes lie, so is she. She takes both breasts in her hands, her long fingers nearly encompassing them, and pinches at the dusky nipples that she has only felt before.

“You’re very beautiful,” she whispers, circling hardening nipples with her thumbs. Shepard releases a shuddery breath in response, her eyelids already growing heavy. Liara can feel her heart hammering away beneath her chest – practically in the palm of her hand – and how her own heart responds to it. She is quickly overwhelmed by the urge to draw desperate noises from Shepard’s lips, like she knows she can.

The angle is awkward. This would be easier in reverse, Liara thinks, as she dips her lips to Shepard’s throat, and continues uncomfortably down until she reaches the tops of her breasts. With a low moan, Shepard places both hands behind her and offers herself up, giving Liara better access. She feels the stroke of a teasing tongue against her nipple, and shudders out a heavy breath when Liara takes her into her warm mouth.

She’s gentle, at first, but Shepard has her preferences and Liara is privy to at least a few – to this one, in particular. She introduces the gentle pinch of her teeth, and Shepard jolts and stiffens, groaning hollowly behind grit teeth.

“Fuck,” she says, one hand coming up to the back of Liara’s neck, fingers threading between the folds there. “Do that again.”

Liara indulges her – couldn’t refuse her, not now. She traps Shepard’s nipple between her teeth, and Shepard feels a sharp, answering throb between her legs. It’s easy for Liara to guide her down to the bed, after that. The angle is a strain on her neck, and she isn’t quite done exploring, yet. Shepard lands heavily on her back, hair fanning out around her, and Liara follows her down, capturing her other nipple in her mouth this time.

Liara loves her breasts until Shepard is producing a steady litany of gasping, mewling noises, her hips arching up into Liara’s, wanting a thigh to grind against as she usually enjoys. Satisfied, Liara releases a pebbled nipple with a wet pop, and Shepard’s body relaxes once more into the bed. She presses both hands into her face and says something too muffled for Liara to make sense of.

“Yes?” Liara prompts her, pressing kisses down her ribs, and Shepard lowers her hands to watch her, her expression growing more tormented the lower down Liara’s mouth travels.

“ _Fuck_.”

“Patience,” Liara tsks, her hands coming to the draw strings in Shepard’s pyjama bottoms. She tugs until they come loose, but makes no further progress on removing them. Instead, she settles more comfortably on the floor between Shepard’s legs, kneeling with her hands on strong thighs. Shepard just about keeps from whimpering when she notices.

From her position, Liara slips her hands around Shepard’s ankles, taking a moment to both admire and grow accustomed to the texture of the prosthetic. She soothes her fingers along the flesh-like texture and thinks, had Shepard shaved her other leg, the two would likely feel identical. “Is this comfortable?” she asks a moment later. “Would you prefer to remove it?”

“I’m good,” Shepard tells her, holding herself up on her elbows. She nods down to the waistband of her pyjama pants, bites her bottom lip, and asks, “Are you going to take these off?”

Liara levels her with an unimpressed look, but can’t keep from smiling. Without answering, she slips her hands up along Shepard’s legs, over knees and hips, and hooks her fingers in the waistband of her pyjamas. “Lift,” she instructs, and Shepard does as asked, until warm hands are sailing back down her bare thighs, taking the pyjamas with them.

And she can’t _not_ look, when Shepard is so open for her to see, her stomach rising and falling, tensing and relaxing, almost as quickly as the heart that pounds in Liara’s chest. She settles her hands on Shepard’s knees and gently eases them further apart, fitting herself more comfortably between them.

Liara presses a kiss to Shepard’s scarred abdomen, and the muscles beneath her mouth rise and fall with an answering sigh. When she lifts her head, it’s to see the pink flush of Shepard’s chest, just dusting the tops of her breasts and climbing high up her neck, to the points of her cheeks. She offers Shepard a small, amused smile, and glances back down to where her hands are splayed across a taut stomach. There’s a fray of hair stretching out from above the waistband of her underwear, curiously dark, and as coarse as Liara remembers when she brushes a thumb through it.

Shepard twitches in response, canting her hips higher, and Liara finally removes her underwear to see that soft, warm place that she’s only ever known with her fingers.

“Oh…” She brushes her thumbs either side of her, petals Shepard open so that she can better see the gathering wetness, and hears a heavy sigh from somewhere further up the bed. “You’re so pink here, Jane.”

“Yeah,” Shepard manages, voice strangled. “You, uh, gonna keep touching?”

Liara can’t help but laugh – too giddy and for too long. She bites her bottom lip to contain it, but Shepard only lifts herself higher, pouting down at her, now, as though Liara were inflicting great torture.

“Don’t laugh…”

“I’m sorry,” Liara whispers, sounding anything but. She turns her attention back down to her hands, to the swollen pearl of Shepard’s clit, and is almost overwhelmed by the urge to place a kiss there. Later, she tells herself, and takes in a deep breath of the heady scent that she is so used to catching on her fingers. Being so close to its source brings a flush to the high points of her cheeks, and she gently lowers her hands again.

Shepard almost groans when Liara stops touching her altogether – almost pleads with her to come back when Liara stands, takes a backwards step, and reaches for the button that is keeping her trousers up. Only once she’s popped it open and moved on to the zipper does Shepard’s hazy mind catch up, and she slowly rises until she’s in a sitting position again.

She can’t keep her hands from reaching out to Liara’s hips, and she’s rewarded with another step forward and a small, tentative smile. The fabric beneath her fingers comes loose, finally, and Liara lets her take over and draw the last of her garments down her legs. She stands there quietly for a moment, holding her breath as Shepard holds her gaze, but Shepard’s patience is fast wearing down. She turns her attention to that smooth, purpling space between Liara’s legs, and feels her tongue thicken inside her mouth.

“Liara,” she says, quietly, almost cautious. “Are we going to…?”

“Yes,” Liara tells her, certain, and weaves a hand through her hair. “Are you…?”

“Yeah.”

“Then lie down.”

Before she goes, Shepard presses a lingering kiss to Liara’s stomach. The muscles beneath are soft with disuse, her scaled skin as smooth as Shepard remembers. The fingers in her hair tighten suddenly when she dips her tongue out, lathing the skin just below Liara’s naval until she shudders and sighs, and draws her gently back.

Shepard goes with a smile – broad and shameless – before climbing up the bed.

She wonders if she should feel nervous or afraid, as Liara crawls up the bed beside her, lying so close that they fit onto the same pillow. Only weeks ago, her every instinct was to keep this exact thing from happening, and now – now, she pulls Liara ever closer, and grins when her leg hairs cause Liara to shiver and laugh.

They settle closely together, and Liara kisses her until Shepard almost forgets what they’re about to do. It’s only when Liara presses a hand to her chest, feeling the quick jump of her heart, that she pulls back again. She looks at Shepard softly, soothing her fingers along her chest, and, “don’t be afraid,” she tells her. “I’m right here.”

Shepard feels around for her fear, even as it eases back – eases into determination and pride, because this is her moment, finally, to prove herself. She holds Liara’s gaze and smiles, ready.

“I know.”

“Jane,” it begins, and Shepard is pulled into something vast and new and whole, “embrace eternity.”

 

Shepard is in a strange place.

Darkness surrounds her – the kind so impenetrable that she feels it must be infinite. It does not worry her. She feels thick with content, lulled into safety, and so warm that when the blankness around her becomes defined, she does not panic. She watches as the stars appear, the brightest first, with a dusting of smaller, barely-there lights surrounding them. They fill what she thinks must be the sky, and reflect back from the ground, surrounding her.

It's partway through her own admiration that Shepard notices that she is not standing on solid ground, but a reflective, watery surface. It shifts around her when she takes a footstep, and she watches the ripples as they grow wider and larger, going so far that Shepard almost thinks their longevity supernatural.

She steps again, wanting to recreate the strange ripples, and when she places her foot down, this time, a gunshot rings out. Shepard twists around, half-ducking, trying to find its source. The noise goes on, one shot after the other, the sound directionless and all-encompassing. She panics, and hears a shout.

When she turns into the noise, this time, there are figures there – shimmery, without faces, looming towards her with screaming weapons.

Shepard throws up her hands, but before the bullets can hit her, a blue light emanates out from her centre. She watches it expand, grow brighter; it hits her faceless enemies and drives them back, disintegrates them on the spot, and does not stop – not even when Liara appears, as bare as she’d left her on the bed. Shepard panics that the light will have the same effect, and reaches out to warn her.

Instead, the light hits her like a weak breeze. Liara passes straight through it, unharmed.

When she reaches her, Liara takes her hands, and Shepard feels as though she suddenly has some control over the strange place that she’s in.

“What is this?” she asks, her voice echoing around her. The smile Liara shows her is so bright and warm, so impossibly loving, that it almost brings tears to her eyes. “Where are we?”

“This is us, Jane,” Liara tells her. “It’s ours.”

Shepard casts a disbelieving glance around, and yet she does not doubt it. She feels so at peace, so welcome. “It’s beautiful.”

She turns back to Liara, and Liara’s smile widens.

“I know.”

They stay in the deep meld for a while longer, and when Liara kisses her, Shepard feels her entire body fill up on love. She does not have to question whether Liara feels the same. Finally, drawing back, Liara presses kisses to each of her cheeks, and moves her mouth to her ear to whisper, “Open your eyes.”

Shepard only stares at her, at first, and then realises that she is still conscious somewhere outside of their joining. For all of a second, panic rushes through her, and the fear that she might lose this inexplicable closeness that she currently feels. It’s soothed easily and effectively; the last thing Shepard feels before opening her eyes and allowing light into their dark space is Liara’s lips, so gentle against hers.

 

It’s almost a surprise to be back on the bed.

Shepard’s limbs feel both heavy and too light, and she shifts ever closer into Liara, making up for the sudden loss of that new togetherness. It takes her seconds to notice Liara’s eyes. When she does, it is with a quiet gasp and a quick tug at her heart. “Your eyes are pitch black,” she whispers, seeing her own face reflected back through them.

“I know,” Liara grins, “as are yours.”

It’s easy, then, to find the arousal that led them here.

Shepard feels full on it – on acceptance and love and the need to give Liara more, make her feel _more_ – and Liara only feeds off of it, and sends it back. She presses herself as close as she can to Shepard, and Shepard rolls their bodies until she’s on top, their legs entwined with just enough pressure where they need it to rekindle the desire.

She drops kisses to Liara’s mouth, to the point of her chin and along her throat. When she reaches that sensitive spot beneath Liara’s jaw – nibbles and gently sucks there like she knows Liara prefers – she feels an answering spike of arousal between her own legs, and a tingling beneath her jaw, as the sensation imprints through their joined nervous systems. Intrigued, Liara brushes her hands along Shepard’s breasts, captures her nipples between finger and thumb, and gently tweaks until she is near-choking on her own moans.

(A small part of Shepard thinks she deserves it, for all her teasing.)

As though she’d plucked the thought right out of her head, Liara tweaks them again, purposefully harder, and they both gasp at the joined sensation.

“Jane,” Liara sighs when Shepard rocks into her, and slides her hands around to Shepard’s back. She’s burning hot, even here, and Liara cannot help but rake her hands over muscle and bone, and all of those little scars, until she reaches her ass. She squeezes gently, at first, as though testing the mirrored sensation, and then pulls her _in_. Their hips align again, pressure mounting, and Shepard stutters a moan against her throat.

Liara cants her hips up for more. She almost cries out when Shepard lifts herself up, breaking several points of contact, to make some room between their lower bodies. A stray thought – either purpose or simple longing – threads through their joining; with a moan, Liara opens herself up for her, and waits.

There’s a sense of urgency, this time, when Shepard slides a hand along the curve of Liara’s stomach, to that warm, already wet place between her legs. And this, at least, she is familiar with. She slides fingers through her soft folds, from Liara’s heated opening to the button of her clit, and has to keep her own hips from jumping at the intensity of the mirrored sensation.

Below her, Liara slides one hand behind Shepard’s neck, and draws her in for an open-mouthed kiss.

It’s messy. It is strange and difficult, at first, to work with this new, combined consciousness and control both bodies together. Each teasing stroke of Shepard’s fingers is an assault on her own body – her own waning patience. She feeds strangled moans past Liara’s lips and finally dips into her with a finger, and then another. She feels the stretch of them between her own legs, and almost jumps with real surprise at the intensity of the feeling, until she realises that Liara has physically mirrored her position.

She draws back from Liara to take a proper breath through her mouth – to look into her dark, dark eyes as she curls her fingers inside of her, and, prompted by both urge and sensation, Liara does the same. And, oh, but she’s not going to last long like this – can already feel heat burning through the heels of her feet in warning. In either reassurance or agreement, Liara brings her hand to Shepard’s jaw and caresses her lips with an unsteady stroke of her thumb.

She is gasping beneath her, her cheeks purpling and too-hot, lips parted for each shaky breath that she cannot contain. Shepard thinks she might just come undone from the sight alone.

“Don’t hold it back,” Shepard tells her, and feels Liara tighten around her fingers, drawing her further in.

She shifts her weight on her elbow, allowing her to put more strength into her thrusts. Encouraged, Liara follows in perfect sync, and her long, slender fingers press, and press, and _press_ into that sweet, rough patch inside of Shepard until they are both trembling and close to the precipice of their crowning climax.

Liara recognises it, first – the way her body locks into place, Shepard’s fingers thick inside of her.

There’ll be no going back from this point, she knows, and her eyes briefly shut – scrunch at the corners. She grits her teeth and tries to hold off, tries to will the orgasm back, when she feels Shepard’s lips against her own. When she pulls back, Liara meets her gaze, catches herself trapped in Shepard’s dark, shining eyes, and feels suddenly overcome with relief.

Quietly, and ever so easily, she lets go.

The orgasm reaches them in perfect synchronisation. Their hips jerk in joint reaction, reaching for more pressure, more _pleasure_ , more friction, until they feel inexplicably full with that warm, gentle stirring in their chests. Shepard drops her face into Liara’s throat, cries out and shudders as she tightens around Liara’s fingers. Above her, against her tangled hair, she hears Liara release a quiet cry – feels her body shake beneath her with release.

Finally, over spent, their bodies fall together.

Shepard sinks heavily on top of Liara, but there is no complaint, only a shared feeling of content and two warm arms circling her back. She leaves kisses along Liara’s throat, down to the vague protrusion of her collarbone, and back up again. She feels the exact moment that the meld eases and she is left unbearably alone within her own mind, and clings just a little closer to Liara in response.

“God,” she whispers, breathing heavily, and turns her face out to see her wall of model ships.

She is in her bedroom, still, and she takes a moment to ground herself before she becomes aware of a chill at her back. When she draws back to ask Liara if she would prefer to be beneath the duvet, however, she catches the asari closed-eyed and loose-jawed, and has to wrestle down the sudden urge to laugh.

“Liara?” she whispers, carefully lifting herself. “Li… are you okay?”

Liara only breathes deeply and quietly in response.

 

When Liara wakes again, it is beneath a light blanket, alone.

She stretches at first, unthinking, drawing out each limb as far as it will go. Goddess, but her body feels heavy, utterly ruined, and wonderful. It’s cold outside of the blanket, and she gladly curls her limbs back into herself, seeking warmth. Only then does she open her eyes, and realises where she still is.

More specifically, she realises where Shepard _isn’t_.

She might be concerned, too, if she didn’t feel so… spent. As it is, she rolls onto one side and takes the blanket with her, wrapping herself up in its warmth. Overhead, a train passes by too closely, and Liara yawns through the building’s answering shake. That is when Shepard appears, as though summoned by the noise.

Liara scowls a little when she sees that she’s dressed, if only in her underwear and pyjama shirt. She shows Liara a bright smile when she sees her finally awake, and sets the glass of water that she’d gone to fetch down on her bedside table, retaking her place by Liara’s side. Liara curls into her almost immediately.

“Did I wear you out?” Shepard asks, wrapping both arms around her.

Too tired to scoff, Liara lays her head on Shepard’s chest and nods. “They say melding with non-asari can be exhausting. You’re really quite resistant.”

“Really?” Shepard asks, concerned, and Liara hums in agreement. “I’m sorry.”

“Jane,” a breathy laugh, “don’t be. I feel boneless.”

“I feel fucking amazing.”

“Mhm…”

They lay like that until Liara has enough energy to draw the blanket down from around her. Wrapped up in Shepard, she doesn’t need it to keep warm, and she gracefully shifts it until it’s covering their twined legs. Without the blanket in the way, she can push the pyjama top out of the way and splay a hand along Shepard’s stomach. She releases a long sigh at the reconnection of substantial skin-to-skin contact.

Distracted, she lets her fingers wander aimlessly, until she reaches the large, vaguely protruding scar along Shepard’s abdomen. She pauses at it, stroking the length of it twice over, and then lifts her head to consider Shepard. Unconcerned, Shepard meets her gaze, and Liara eases herself up.

When Liara straddles her, Shepard only helps her along, hands at her hips and urging her naked body closer. From this position, Liara has a much better vantage point on the situation. She shifts her fingers from scar to scar, touching them at random before coming to a stop against a particularly jagged silver mark.

“How did you get that one?”

Shepard dips her chin to see, and then shrugs unhelpfully. “I don’t remember. Shrapnel, maybe.”

“What about this one?” Liara asks, moving on.

“Oh,” Shepard presses a finger to the bullet wound herself. “That one didn’t hit anything vital.”

Instead of pressing for a proper answer, Liara only looks at her oddly, and then surges forward to press a kiss to her mouth. Shepard does not complain. She winds her fingers into the folds behind Liara’s neck and parts her lips when a questing tongue seeks entry. When she pulls back again, Liara looks almost bashful.

“What was that for?” Shepard grins, and Liara lifts her shoulders in an ineffective shrug.

“Your entire body is walking proof of the amount of times you’ve escaped death…”

“Ah, yeah,” Shepard smirks. “Isn’t everyone’s?”

Liara’s brow draws tight. “Not everyone else’s scars are quite so… colourful.”

“Mm, mine are creative.” She moves her palms to Liara’s bare thighs. “I thought you liked that about me.”

Liara scoffs, but her smile streaks through, regardless. “I recall insulting you several times for your _creativity_.”

“Ha, you love it.”

“I do,” she agrees, and kisses Shepard again. When she pulls back the humour is gone from her face, and her expression is unbearably earnest. “I’m… so thankful that you’re still here.”

Shepard stares up at her, unsure what to say. “Me too.”

“I mean it, Jane.”

“Trust me,” Shepard tells her, sliding her hands along Liara’s thighs, “ _me too_.”

She nips at Liara’s thighs, then, until Liara jumps and squeaks, and prods Shepard in her ticklish stomach in retaliation. Shepard makes a noise as if she’d been wounded, but it is almost lost to the volume of Liara’s laughter. When she quiets again, there is no trace of that old concern, but a bright smile on her lips and a dangerously thoughtful expression in her eyes.

“I like this position,” she says, giving a long, slow roll of her hips.

Shepard releases a quiet groan, gaze straying to Liara’s breasts. “Me too…”

“Goddess,” Liara laughs again, “is that all you have to say?”

Grinning, and without moving her hands from Liara’s thighs, Shepard lifts herself up into a sitting position using nothing but her impressive abs. Liara feels each and every pull from them beneath her hands, and hums an appreciative moan against Shepard’s lips. She lets the kiss last – lets Shepard think that she has forgotten how appallingly over-dressed she is – and then draws back, pressing her forcefully back down to the bed.

 

 

 

**[SEVERAL MONTHS LATER]**

 

“Do you have everything?”

Shepard waits for an answer to her shout. When none comes, she pulls herself back from the rear storage unit of Liara’s skycar, and squints back up to the entrance of the garage. She catches Liara talking animatedly to herself, omni-tool activated; when she catches Shepard’s eye, she throws up a finger in askance, and Shepard nods her head.

She turns with a sigh, casts another glance around her, and wonders how she got saddled with packing up the trunk alone.

Just as she’s about to praise Liara’s devious timing, a presence steps into Shepard’s peripheral. She turns quickly, only to meet the cutting stare of Matriarch Aethyta. The other asari had been up with them all morning, overseeing the preparations for their trip, and yet not once offering to share Shepard’s work load even when she’d seen her struggling with Liara’s suitcases.

Shepard offers her an easy nod, now, and is not surprised when Aethyta only blinks back at her.

“You all packed up?” she asks, voice gravelly, and Shepard nods again.

“As long as Liara doesn’t suddenly realise that she’s forgotten something,” she says, and they both cast a glance out to where Liara has begun pacing. “And it better not be something big, either. She’s already filled up the back.”

“She said you’re going to Ilos first,” Aethyta cuts in, frowning now. “That’s Terminus, isn’t it?”

“She’s expecting it to be quiet.”

“It’s _Terminus_ ,” Aethyta repeats, and Shepard backs up to the trunk of the skycar, drawing out the case that holds the majority of her registered firearms. She pops the locks open and feels Aethyta’s keen gaze over her shoulder, assessing its contents. Once she’s made a gruff noise of acknowledgement, Shepard closes and locks the case again.

“I’ll keep her safe,” Shepard tells her, and Aethyta sends her a look that as good as says that if Liara returns with so much as a grazed knee, Shepard’s losing her head.

She meets the threat with a near-graceful smile.

The tension shatters once Liara approaches, fiddling with her omni-tool. “Sorry,” she says, and deactivates the holographic screen. “I was just making arrangements.” She turns to Shepard with a hesitant smile, and adds, “And I promised my mother that we would drop by before we return home.”

Shepard offers an easy shrug, unfazed. “Sounds good.”

“Oh, you’ve grown braver since winter,” Liara laughs, slipping a hand into one of Shepard’s and swaying into her until their shoulders bump. Shepard only scoffs as a quick kiss is pressed to her cheek. “We won’t be able to stay long. I believe I’m starting back a week earlier than your classes begin, and I have preparations to make.”

Shepard dips her head in acknowledgement, while a throat clears beside them. Upon seeing Aethyta, Liara steps back from Shepard almost comically quickly, a hint of dark blue in her cheeks. Aethyta takes her in with an ever so slight shake of her head. “Just keep yourselves safe,” she says, and Liara squeezes Shepard’s hand.

“Of course we will, Aethyta. This is not my first time on a dig site, and this time I’ll have Jane with me.”

Aethyta gives an unimpressed hum, and then steps forward as though she has more to say. For a short moment, Liara thinks that her neighbour might just land a bombshell on her, and then Aethyta’s shoulders sag with a sigh. Instead of a crippling reveal, Aethyta steps closer, pulling Liara into a rib-crushing hug.

Shepard stares on, amused, as her hand is released for Liara to embrace Aethyta back.

Finally, almost sheepishly, Aethyta releases her. If Shepard didn’t know any better, she’d call the old Matriarch embarrassed, but that might just be pushing it. Even Liara appears a little amused beneath her surprise, as she reaches out to squeeze Aethyta’s hand. “We’ll be back before the summer’s out,” she promises, and then turns her coy smile on Shepard. “Unless we decide to stay longer. It would be easy for one ship to get lost out there, wouldn’t it?”

Shepard snorts a laugh, but gladly agrees. “Yes, it would.”

 

Aethyta does not wave when she sees them off, but stands with one hand shielding her eyes and the other stiff by her side. She waits until the skycar grows small and indeterminable with distance, and only steps inside again once they have disappeared from view, swallowed by the sunlight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Quick credit to the Grindhouse film, Planet Terror – I hope someone got the reference with the machete-armed asari vid cover?) 
> 
> Well. This has been a fic. I’ll try and get the epilogue up as soon as possible (and that link), but for all intents and purposes, this is it. I will leave you with one last song rec, and we’re sticking with Brian Crain. Check out his 'Song for Sienna'. I hope you’ve all enjoyed the read, and thanks again for sticking it out with me!


	23. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I promise epilogue desk sex? Yea, I have no other excuse for this… Upping the rating for paranoia’s sake.

Liara despises waiting.

Patience is a virtue often associated with her race, and yet if she has to wait another ten minutes for Jane to contact her, she might just go out looking for her instead. She checks the time on her datapad again – exactly two minutes since she last looked – and sighs, forcing her attention back to her seminar preparations. Jane would have her results by now. She would have opened them, too impatient to wait. She might even be at a bar already, celebrating…

Either that, Liara thinks, or their brief separation before the final deadline week has eaten a hole in Jane’s success.

Liara’s stomach sinks at the thought. Her fingers still over her datapad. She checks the time _again_. Frustrated, she pushes her chair back from her desk, resigning herself to distraction, and activates her omni-tool. She opens up her most recent correspondence and begins: { _Jane, is everything okay?_ }

She reads the message over and then quickly discards it. Again, she tries: { _Will we be celebrating tonight?_ }

This one she erases quicker than the last. She curses under her breath and lowers her omni-tool in thought. Finally: { _How have you done?_ }

Liara stares at the message for a short moment, adds a smiley face, and then sends it before she can change her mind. She turns back to her work, tucking the chair back beneath her desk, and releases a quiet noise of exasperation as she returns to her preparations. Accepting that she will get no work done while she’s still uncertain about Jane’s fate, she decides to read back through the detailed plan that she has been constructing, checking the time in between.

And she would be content to continue waiting, she really would, except she opens her omni-tool almost subconsciously. Muscle memory, she’d call it, and her underlying need to know Jane’s results. There are no new notifications in her messages, and yet she opens their chat log again anyway, wanting to reread her last message and ensure that it wasn’t unsupportive.

That’s when she notices the icon beside her box of text, detailing that Jane has read it but not yet replied. Liara holds her breath. She sits with her omni-tool activated, unmoving, and waits to see the animated ellipsis that says Jane is typing her reply. It does not come. Liara waits a minute longer. It _does not come_.

Panicking, now, she assumes the worst.

She drags her bottom lip between her teeth and thinks, well. It could be worse. Jane has faced worse. Liara could even help her study when it came to resitting any necessary exams – she could offer all of that extra help that she promised herself she would not offer, simply because they’re sleeping together.

She’ll do it anyway, morals be damned.

She is halfway decided on which topics she and Jane could work on – areas that she knows Jane has struggled with before – when her locked office door gives a sharp ring for attention. Liara is so deep in thought that she almost ignores it. She stands from her desk begrudgingly, and is already planning to clear one of her many datapads for Jane’s study notes, when her door opens.

Revealing the woman herself, no less.

Liara stares at her in surprise, and then quickly examines her expression. Humans are generous with their emotions, from her experience – and Jane more so than others, at least when they’re together. If Liara herself is so often teased for her _telling smile_ , it is only because Jane is too familiar with the trait herself.

When Liara looks now, however, there is not quite a grin on Shepard’s face. It is a smile, she would argue, but her eyes are tight and strained, and Liara’s stomach knots at the sight.

“Jane,” she says, and Shepard lifts up the envelope that she’s carrying. “Is that…?”

“May I come in, Professor?” Shepard asks, loud enough for anyone else in the corridor to hear. “I wanted to discuss my results with you.”

“Oh— _yes_ , of course.”

Liara steps out of the way, and Shepard enters in that breezy way that she has. She taps her fingers against her envelope and turns around to face Liara, waiting for the door to close and automatically lock itself behind them. As soon as the notifying click of the lock sounds, Shepard leans her backside into the edge of Liara’s desk and smiles across at her professor.

It is a quick thing – nonchalant, Liara would say. She wonders if it is a façade.

“Well,” she says, her voice near-breathless with concern. She twists her fingers together and steps up before Shepard, close enough that she could reach out and take the envelope from her, should she find the strength (or stomach) to read the results for herself. “You’ve opened it already?”

“I have,” Shepard agrees.

Her expression gives nothing away. Liara wants to pinch her.

“And…?” she prompts, dipping her head, eyes narrowing. Her face pinches into a look of concern – of outright dread – and, _finally_ , Shepard’s face breaks into a grin.

“You’re _nervous_ ,” she says, announces it like she is delighted.

“I am not—”

“You’re bricking it,” Shepard laughs, and slaps the folder gently against Liara’s fidgeting hands. All at once, Liara’s nerves ease into irritation; she sighs the last of the tension out of her body, and snatches the envelope from Shepard’s hand. She does not hesitate to find the results within, ignoring Shepard’s gloating smile. “You actually doubted me, huh? I’m hurt. _Wounded_. My confidence has been punctured.”

“Jane,” Liara snips, not yet lifting her eyes from the page. She scans it right down to the bottom, and then deflates again with another little sigh. “You did very well.”

“Oh,” Shepard pouts, “you can do better than that.”

Finally, Liara meets her gaze, and she cannot keep from smiling.

“I’m very proud of you,” she says with a tone of embellishment, and yet they both know she’s not exaggerating. She slips the paper away, hands the envelope back to Shepard, and takes a step closer. Shepard deposits the envelope on the desk behind her and gladly welcomes her, shifting her legs further apart and drawing Liara between them with two hands at her rounded hips. “Well done.”

“Thank you,” Shepard murmurs against her lips, inviting a kiss. She does not pull away again until Liara hums into her mouth, and then: “So, do I deserve some kind of reward for actually pulling this off?”

“A reward?”

“Incentive,” Shepard shrugs, “to keep doing well.”

“Ah, you were one of _those_ children,” Liara teases, and Shepard squeezes her ass in retaliation. “Surely, it should be _me_ who gets the reward, considering I evidently did such a fantastic job in teaching you.”

Shepard is about to guffaw when she stops mid-laugh. If that isn’t enough, the suddenly thoughtful expression that brightens her face has Liara suspicious, and only a little excited. When Shepard pushes off from the desk, effectively crowding her space, Liara only lifts her head in confusion. Without speaking, Shepard draws her closer to her, and Liara has to take a quick grasp of her shoulders to keep from falling as their positions are reversed.

Once Liara is comfortably nestled between Shepard and her desk, she quirks her brow and asks, “Jane?”

“You’re not expecting anybody, are you?”

“I’m not… Why am I suddenly very glad that my office door is locked?”

“Because,” Shepard says, her grin growing excited, “I think you’re right. You should get a reward.”

From the inflection in her voice, there is no doubt what she has in mind. Liara’s cheeks burn with the thought. She casts one quick, futile glance at her office door, wets her lips, and turns to Shepard. “Here?” She can only imagine what might happen if they’re heard – or worse, interrupted – and yet… As horrified as she is, she _is_ considering it.

“Here,” Shepard agrees, leaning past her to place both hands on the desk. The move forces Liara back, until she is sitting properly on top of the enveloped results, Shepard’s hands trapping her there by her hips. “I recall you telling me about a sturdy desk in some dark, cluttered office somewhere… I remember, in particular, you being rather excited about the idea back on Noveria.”

Liara’s breath lodges thick in her throat.

“That was Noveria,” she insists, cheeks heating.

“Believe me, I remember. I already miss it.”

Liara can’t help but smile and privately agree. They really should have planned for the blizzard interrupting their travel plans, all things considered. Had they thought ahead, they could have properly prepared for the two days that they ended up grounded, and seen more of the planet than the four walls of their hotel suite. Then again…

Quickly, Liara clears her thoughts. “I recall us being very much alone at the time,” she says, and Shepard’s smile turns devious.

“But you were thinking about it. You’re considering it, even now.”

“Perhaps…”

“Mm,” Shepard hums, agreement or satisfaction, Liara is not sure. “Tell me which part.”

“The part where there’s no real danger of us being caught,” Liara tells her, and while there’s emphasis on the _caught_ , there is a breathless quality to her voice that Shepard can’t help but exploit. She arches an interested eyebrow, and Liara feels her cheeks colour even as she releases a short, amused huff. “You want me to tell you – in detail?”

Because – surely not?

Smiling, still, Shepard nods her head. “In detail.”

(She shouldn’t be so surprised, Liara thinks.)

When she takes too long to answer, her thoughts torn between temptation and propriety, Shepard shifts her hands to Liara’s knees. She’s wearing a loose fitted skirt today, the hem stretched tight with Shepard between her legs – and tighter, still, when questing hands draw the fabric up past her knees. Shepard stops when she has her hands on the soft, bare flesh of Liara’s lower thighs.

Goddess, if it doesn’t still make her breath hitch…

“You were very vocal about this back on Noveria,” Shepard smirks, giving a testing, teasing squeeze around Liara’s supple thighs. The muscles beneath her palms give a quick jolt, accompanied by an intake of breath. “Don’t get shy on me, now.”

“There’s a difference,” Liara sputters, “between shyness and— _Jane_.” Her muscles jolt again as Shepard squeezes her thighs just above her kneecaps, but her lips pull into a quick, unstoppable grin. She tries to tame it quickly, though Shepard’s answering smirk shows her just how successful that attempt is.

She gives a slow shake of her head, and yet she loves it when Shepard is like this – when she’s playful and eager. It brings out the excitable maiden in her. And she’ll blame it on that, in the end, the reason why she smiles and adopts her _Professor voice_ and says, instead of downright telling Jane to stop, “This is _incredibly_ inappropriate, Jane.”

It throws Shepard right back to those early days – to kisses stolen in the very spot that they’ve now found themselves in. She does not hesitate to play along. “Are you telling me you’re not interested?” And her hands climb an inch higher – squeeze again, climb higher still. Liara wriggles on the edge of the desk, fighting to keep still.

“I thought I have a _very telling smile_ ,” Liara croons. “You’re suddenly unable to read it, hm? Then perhaps you should check for yourself.”

Shepard misses a beat.

Holding Liara’s gaze, slightly slack-jawed already, she realises what she is being encouraged – _invited_ – to do, and slips her hands ever higher. Her thumbs dip into the soft, warm underside of Liara’s inner-thighs, before finally meeting with the elasticated hem of her underwear. Shepard teases her thumbs along her, first, touching her through the lacy material. Liara reacts shamelessly, arching her hips for more contact, and Shepard does not disappoint.

She draws one thumb over the swelling button of her clit, making tight circles that cause Liara’s eyelids to grow heavy. Satisfied with the response, she lowers her thumb to the warm, warm place where Liara’s panties are beginning to grow slick, and sighs. “Tell me what you’re thinking about,” she prompts again, her voice low and hoarse. “In detail.”

Her thumb slips back up to Liara’s clit, pressing harder now, running the blunt edge of her nail up and down with maddening precision. Liara’s thighs shudder – she grips determinedly at the edge of the desk.

Still, she panics, searching for something to say. Truthfully, she’s thinking of very little at this point, but the slow, precise draw of Shepard’s thumb. And even if she were, embarrassment sticks her tongue to the roof of her mouth – burns her cheeks a purpling-blue. But this is Jane, she reminds herself, Jane who has loved her and protected her, who has supported her through her return to archaeology, however brief.

Jane who has her thumb one lacy, thin barrier short of where she really wants it, and who would give her so much more, should she ask. Liara is loath to deny her anything, at this point.

She takes a deep, shuddering breath, and tries, “I’m thinking of you.” Shepard makes a noise of encouragement. “I’m… thinking of Noveria.” Whether in reward or pity, Shepard returns to drawing a slow, steady circle against Liara’s clit. The pressure isn’t quite so prominent, now, but the tease is worse. Liara edges closer towards her, searching for more contact, but Shepard is persistent.

She keeps the teasing, too-slow circling up as Liara tries to rock into her hand for more friction, and even that only makes her smirk widen.

“Go on,” Shepard prompts, and Liara releases a frustrated sigh.

“I’m thinking of you putting that tongue to better use,” she huffs, and almost chokes when she realises what has just come out of her mouth.

“Oh,” Shepard murmurs, impressed, “that’s more like it. Better use where?”

As she asks it, Shepard draws her hand back from between Liara’s legs, just far enough for her fingertips to find the hem of her underwear and slip inside. Liara releases a quiet keening noise as she skims her clit; her fingers return once she’s just past it, through slick folds, to the entrance that she had only teased earlier. She circles the sensitive surrounding flesh, until Liara whimpers and tries to arch her hips up for more contact, but Shepard is still waiting on an answer.

“Where?” she asks.

“ _There_ ,” Liara pants back, her legs tensing and shuddering. She looks down to her lap, to where Shepard’s wrist disappears beneath her skirt. She thinks of the locked door, the people passing outside, and bites at her inner-mouth to keep from whimpering aloud. Her cheeks turn a pretty purple, the colour bleeding down to her throat, her covered chest. Shepard smiles at the sight of it. “Oh, right there.”

“Here?” And she draws a knuckle through Liara’s folds, dipping briefly and barely into her entrance. Liara grinds against her hand, nodding, afraid that if she opens her mouth again some wanton, awful noise will escape. “You want me to lick you here – nice and slow?”

That, at least, has Liara’s eyes widening. She frowns at Shepard – jaw dropping with premature accusation – as she struggles to shake her head and stutter, so quietly, “ _n-no!_ ”

“Alright, okay,” Shepard says, reassuring, but her grin is wolfish. “Then stand up for me, sweetheart. I don’t want to ruin your paperwork.”

Liara watches her, dazed.

It is only when Shepard’s fingers do not _slip in_ , but rather _slip completely out_ of her underwear that she reacts. Her blinking, flushed expression must call to Shepard; before she can do anything else, she presses a warm, reassuring kiss to Liara’s lips, and then pulls back. Her hands at Liara’s hips, she eases her forward, and Liara dazedly goes the rest of the way.

“Are you steady?”

“Yes.”

Although, just barely, and only with Shepard keeping that hold on her hips. She is slow to relinquish her, to gently turn Liara’s hips until, encouraged, she twists around fully by herself, her back to Shepard’s chest. The position is comforting; with Shepard this close, Liara can lean comfortably back into her without worrying that her knees might give out at any second.

When Shepard’s hands skim the front of her skirt, palming the fabric up until she has enough room to fit both hands underneath, Liara feels her fingers wet against her thigh and _aches_ for her. She presses her ass back into Shepard’s crotch, and feels more than hears the answering, breathy huff of laughter just below the hollow of her ear.

“Jane,” she whispers as those same fingers run a line between her legs, from the wet patch in her underwear, right up to her swollen clit, and back down again. It is maddening, but Shepard’s impatience wins out, and she tucks her hand back inside the warmth of Liara’s underwear.

“You’re so fucking wet,” she groans by Liara’s ear again, circling her entrance.

“And you’re a _tease_ …”

There is an answering nip at the side of her neck – teeth sharp and quick. The spark of pain is enough to return a semblance of clarity to Liara, just before Shepard presses two strong fingers inside of her, and a gasp catches in her throat. Shepard is slow and thorough – she takes her time, keeping her fingers buried inside of Liara, and repeatedly stroking her sensitive front wall. When her fingers hit a particularly delicious spot, Liara gasps and bucks, and Shepard _does not move_ until Liara is trembling in her arms.

She’s frustratingly precise with her fingers – with most actions, Liara has always thought, but especially when it comes to teasing the pleasure out of her body. Shepard knows her too well. She knows, particularly, that if she slows her movements down just so, Liara will rock into her hand to do all of the work herself.

(She cannot help herself, in the end. She loves to see Liara desperate.)

When the moment comes, Liara waits to see what Shepard will do next. She feels lips and tongue against the back of her neck; she’s sensitive here, and Shepard knows what she likes. Still. Liara gives a testing push of her hips, and Shepard seals her lips around her neck, sucking in approval.

Both encouraged and annoyed, Liara presses her hips back and forth again, until the movement almost makes up for Shepard’s previous ministrations – until she is inadvertently riding her hand. She is too lost in the sensation to register Shepard’s lips drawing into a smile by the back of her neck, or even the hand that she moves up to Liara’s breasts, filling her palm and squeezing.

From this position, Liara’s clit remains untouched, and she aches to rectify that. Yet each and every time she attempts to angle her hips just right, Shepard shifts her hand, draws it back, refuses her. She presses a kiss to Liara’s neck, and Liara releases a quiet, muffled cry for her own frustration.

By this point, the pressure at her temples is almost overwhelming. She is sure, were Shepard facing her, she would see her eyes consumed with that pre-meld darkness. It is a special kind of agony, she thinks, the way that she has learned to control it – to keep herself from taking Shepard’s mind without warning. It _hurts_.

Turning her head, she tries to find Shepard’s gaze, and her body shudders and shakes, her rocking hips going still. “Jane,” she says, feeling too hot and too close and far too vulnerable. But Shepard is here – with kisses along her jaw, her cheek; with one arm sliding around her waist in a half-hug that makes Liara’s chest swell with feeling.

“It’s okay,” Shepard tells her, and presses a lingering kiss to her cheek. She draws her fingers slowly out of Liara, and Liara reluctantly lets them go. “Meld with me?”

For Shepard’s sake, she waits. 

Finally, once she’s teased her enough, Shepard slips down to her knees and draws Liara’s underwear down with her – and she does not hesitate. As quickly as Shepard’s mouth is on her, her tongue teasing her entrance, Liara is connecting their nervous systems – is filling her mind.

There is nothing _nice_ or _slow_ about it.

Shepard groans into her as all of her inflicted teasing is returned, two-fold, to her own body. Karma, Liara wold call that, had she the capacity for coherent thought. As it is, Shepard’s tongue inside of her feels wonderful. Her skirt is held up at the hips, giving her just enough room between her legs, and when Liara is sure that it will not fall down, she lays both hands upon her desk to steady herself.

She cannot rock into Shepard like this – does not want to shift and lose the perfect angle that Shepard has found, her tongue curling inside of her. The sensation is different to her fingers; less reach and dexterity, but so soft. Liara burns with it.

Behind her, on both knees, Shepard buries her face as far as she can between Liara’s legs and tries not to distract herself with the unending, torturous pulse between her thighs. She’s growing accustomed to the melds – they both are, by now – and yet the way in which her body reacts to every ghost-sensation is something that she doubts she’ll ever be immune to.

Shepard feels every turn of her tongue mirrored between her own legs. More specifically, she feels when Liara is on the edge of keening, crying, or more, and draws her mouth away just long enough to change position. She licks the taste of Liara from her lips and then returns, finding her clit now, thrashing her tongue against it and then sucking it past her lips.

Above her, Liara sucks in a too-loud gasp, and Shepard’s hips buck in turn.

“Jane,” panted, breathless, “Jane, I’m— _oh_!”

She’s quiet when she comes – even when she does not have to be.

Liara’s back lifts, straightens, pulls tight and tense and then— _releases_. She shudders with heavy, audible breaths as her orgasm spreads through her, wringing all of the stretched-thin tension out of her limbs. Between her legs, Shepard muffles a shout and shudders with her, both hands on Liara’s hips to keep her grounded.

She’s the first to pull back, her cheeks and chin wet with her effort, but a smile on her lips. Her chest aches as she struggles to steady her breathing. She brings an arm up to wipe her face and her smile widens when she notices Liara, leaning with both elbows on her desk, head lowered, barely upright.

Shepard takes pity.

Her fingers return to Liara’s thighs, gently coursing up and down. Her lips follow shortly after, pressing kisses along the curve of Liara’s bare ass, to the cooling damp trails between her thighs. Liara shudders again when she strays too close to the apex of one thigh, but the sensation is not mirrored; it’s only then that Shepard realises that the meld has ended.

By now, Liara is used to curling into herself and sleeping, and Shepard usually has no objections. She likes to see her sleep, even if only for a few minutes, and wake again utterly uncaring of anything else in the galaxy but how tangled they can comfortably find themselves. Now, Shepard worries she’ll do the same.

(She has seen Liara fall asleep without fail in cramped tents, sandy sleeping bags, and even through one particularly inspiring hailstone storm. That she could sleep bent double at her desk is not entirely out of the realm of possibility, is the point.)

Easing back onto her heels, Shepard draws Liara’s underwear back up her legs, and pulls her skirt down. It is wrinkled, but not conspicuously so, and so Shepard does not draw attention to it. With effort, she rises to her feet and stretches out her cramped legs; there’s only a slight ache there, but it’s easy to ignore. Less so is the damp, uncomfortably tight sensation between her legs.

Moving around Liara, she places one hand on the small of her back and bends to press a kiss to the back of Liara’s neck.

“Hey,” she murmurs, peppering kisses along to her jaw. “Don’t fall asleep.”

Liara tilts her head to the side to show off one narrowed, sleepy eye. Shepard smiles at the sight, and keeps a hand on Liara’s arm when she finally stands, yawns, and turns to face her. There is a satisfied, if exhausted smile on Liara’s lips, and she fits herself against Shepard almost instantly.

She’s a cuddler, and Shepard won’t deny her now.

Careful to avoid walking into anything, Shepard guides Liara back with her, until she can sit in the low-backed chair behind the desk. Liara does not hesitate to follow her down, draping both legs over Shepard’s lap, and nuzzling her face into the space between shoulder and neck. She fits herself comfortably against her, and then closes her eyes.

“Do you have work to finish?” Shepard asks, running one hand along the curve of Liara’s thigh, over her ass, and back again. Liara only makes a quiet, negating noise. “You want to come home with me?”

Liara opens her eyes to see her, finally, and nods her head. “I’ll follow you back.”

“Ooh, very secretive.”

“Sh,” Liara tells her, smiling, and tilts her head up for a kiss. It is slow and soft; the taste of Shepard’s lips reminds her of where they’ve just been, what they’ve just done, and Liara’s body flushes with new arousal. She draws back from the kiss, heat in her cheeks, and wets her lips. “I can’t believe we did that.”

Shepard’s smile turns too proud; Liara wants to kiss it off her lips, but refrains.

“You’d better follow me home quickly,” Shepard says with a look of intent that Liara can only mirror. She slips a hand up into thick, red hair, teasing her nails along Shepard’s scalp, and smiles at the pleasant hum that it draws out of her. “I still want my reward, and I don’t think I want to wait.”

“Who said we were finished here?” Liara asks her, and draws her easily back in.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the previous chapter I mentioned the Google Docs document where I've been compiling notes. The link to this is right [here](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1JhwEaRIdvF6NpossC_VgFEFZCZ0s2lhiMmloieTGUgQ/edit). Feel free to have a poke around.
> 
> Also! I've created a blog solely for fic-related things because I'm paranoid about ~real life~ people who follow my personal blog finding my fanfiction. It's killer. Anyway, it's still very new, but depending on the response it gets, expect to see fic-things and sneak peeks because I have no self-control. Feel free to follow, say hi, and ask any fanfiction related questions here, anon or not. The link's luthorao3.tumblr.com. :)


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